The Sins of the Father
by Baby-Cellophane
Summary: Sequel to "Esmerelda's Choice." Jean-Claude Frollo has been struggling since his father's death. When he becomes inexplicably drawn to a Gypsy dancer, he discovers that, unfair as it is, the sins of the father are sometimes visited upon the son.
1. Prologue, 1496

PROLOGUE, 1496…

His father's house would be sold, along with most of the things in it. The money would pay off his late uncle's debts, he was told; this way, his inheritance would remain intact until he was able to use it. Jean-Claude was allowed, of course, to keep whatever he wished. He did not keep much. He kept a few of his father's books and his journals. His father's handwriting was small and cramped, hard to read. Jean-Claude flipped through the pages; seeing his father's handwriting made tears sting at his eyes, and he couldn't bear to decipher the words just yet. He tucked the journals into the bottom of his trunk. He kept his mother's jewelry; he examined each piece, noting how he had rarely seen her wear any of it. He wrapped it all in the mysterious sampler he'd found. He did not keep any of Katarina's things.

His father's former colleagues had arranged for him to become a blacksmith's apprentice. The thought disgusted him, but he did not voice his opinion on the subject. No one would have listened to him anyway. It was the curse that came with being so young. The idea of becoming a common laborer was an insult; he was well-educated. His father had always told him that he was destined for greatness. Becoming a blacksmith was anything but greatness. Still, he would find a way out of the apprenticeship in time, and he would reach the great, shimmering destiny that his father had told him so much about.

Paris was, after all, filled with opportunity, and he was still young. He had a whole lifetime to reach out and grab it.

~xXx~

The fact that both Phoebus and Esmerelda were alive and well was surely proof of miracles. Clopin wasn't sure what surprised him more, the fact that Phoebus had successfully killed Frollo or the fact that Frollo had lied about Esmerelda's death. Still, he was happy to see the two of them, and he ran to fetch Katarina.

There was really no need for Katarina to continue to pretend that she was a boy, and she'd reluctantly gone back to wearing dresses and skirts. Clopin could tell that she didn't like it. Still, there was no point in disguising her; if the good citizens of Lyon found a girl dressed as a boy, they'd accuse her of being "unnatural" and would punish her for it somehow. Lyon was not a terrible place to live. The guards who patrolled its streets were somewhat kinder than those of Paris, but Clopin still had no desire to cross them. They allowed the Gypsies to camp on the outskirts of the city and let them come and go as they pleased, so long as they broke no laws. It was an arrangement that Clopin could live with.

"Katarina!"

She sensed the urgency in his voice and rushed to him. Her feet were bare and the hem of her skirt spattered with mud. Clopin was sure that Esmerelda would not be upset by this, but still wished that Katarina would at least make an effort to keep clean.

"Come on," he said, "there's…there's someone you need to see."

She followed him, wiping her hands on the front of her skirt. "How on earth did you get so dirty?" he asked.

"Farming," she replied.

"Farming?"

She nodded. "There's a farmer who lets us help him in exchange for a few potatoes." She opened her mouth as if to continue, but stopped suddenly, staring straight ahead. "Mama!" She rushed forward into Esmerelda's waiting arms. Esmerelda was laughing even as tears streamed down her face; she stroked Katarina's short blonde hair. Phoebus watched them, leaning on his crutch, letting them have their moment of reunion. Clopin turned and began to walk away, leaving them their privacy.

If miracles did indeed exist (and now Clopin felt sure that they did), then this was one. Esmerelda and Phoebus were together again, and they would raise Katarina in a proper, loving home. It seemed as though Frollo's death had thrown a great ray of happiness into all the lives he'd worked so hard to destroy. Clopin smiled; the rotten old bastard was probably spinning in his grave, and he deserved to. For once, those who deserved to would be granted happiness, while the wicked suffered.

…**END OF PROLOGUE**


	2. Three Years Later, 1499

THREE YEARS LATER (1499)…

"It's a fantastic sword! You've really outdone yourself this time!"

Hearing Master Arnaud being praised for something he himself had forged made Jean-Claude furious, but he had learned to swallow his anger long ago, and he did so now. He would not be staying with Arnaud for much longer anyway; he was only thirteen, but he was tall for his age, and working as a blacksmith had built up the muscles in his arms and legs. He certainly didn't look like he was thirteen, and he would use this to his advantage. It wasn't as though the army would care much about his age anyway; they would be looking for another soldier, and he would gladly serve as one.

Big as Jean-Claude was, Arnaud was bigger and stronger. The first time Arnaud had touched him, he'd been ten and hadn't been aware of what exactly was going on; Arnaud had given him wine, and the wine had made him sleepy. Arnaud's groping had only become more frequent, and it filled Jean-Claude with anger and discomfort. If Katarina had not run away, if his mother had not gone mad, if his father had not died, he would not be subjected to the pain and humiliation that Arnaud routinely caused him.

"If you want to eat tonight, you'd best get in here!"

Jean-Claude clenched his teeth, but obediently entered the house. He sat down at the table, eating the food that Arnaud had prepared. He was aware of Arnaud watching him and did his best to ignore him. "They were quite impressed with the sword you forged, boy."

"Thank you, Master Arnaud."

"You're far more talented than I had thought," continued Arnaud, pouring a glass of wine and sliding it across the table to Jean-Claude. Jean-Claude stared at it, then lifted it and drank. Lately it took a great deal of wine to make him sleepy, but it made Arnaud's hands easier to ignore. "Just think, you were once a skinny little scholar!" Jean-Claude finished the wine and let Arnaud pour him more. "I like to think I'm making a real man out of you."

Jean-Claude thanked him mechanically. This was how the conversation always went, as though it was scripted, and Jean-Claude had learned the consequences of deviating from the pattern, just as he'd learned the consequences of disobeying Arnaud. Nothing – not even Arnaud's hands – was quite as painful as the feeling of hot metal burning him. He'd accidentally burned himself dozens of times in the course of three years, building up rough calluses on his hands. When Arnaud did it on purpose, though, it was different.

He finished the wine and watched as Arnaud poured him more. He took the glass and drank, ignoring Arnaud's hand on his leg. It barely mattered to him. Tomorrow, he would join the army and be rid of Arnaud and his hands. He would become a soldier, quick and ruthless, and one day he'd come back to Arnaud, and the visit would not be a pleasant one.

~xXx~

He had never felt so happy in all his life. It felt as though his heart would burst from it all, and he half-feared that it would. Katarina – sweet, beautiful, wild-at-heart Katarina – had already agreed to marry him; getting her father's consent, however, had been an entirely different matter. Giovanni knew that he shouldn't have been so nervous about it. Katarina's father liked him well enough, as did her mother. They had both given their consent, and Katarina would marry him before the week was out.

"Well, what did they say?"

As promised, Pierre was waiting for him. Giovanni grinned. "They've said yes!"

"Fantastic!" Pierre clapped him on the back. "When's the wedding?"

"Sunday."

"See, I told you they'd say yes," said Pierre. "Her parents love you. I'll bet they didn't ask for a big dowry."

"They told me they didn't want one."

"That's lucky."

Giovanni shrugged. "I think I should provide one anyway, you know? I mean, it's a custom."

"Only if her parents ask for it," said Pierre. "Besides, I'm sure you can think of other things to spend your hard-earned money on."

"That's true enough."

Money wasn't something that he particularly cared about, at least not right now. Thinking about Katarina's parents suddenly made Giovanni realize just how little money he actually had. He had used most of his earnings to build a small house for him and Katarina. It was incredibly generous of Katarina's parents to allow him to marry her without paying a bride price; it was almost unheard of for a girl's parents to refuse the dowry. He knew that his uncle would demand one when it came time for his cousins, Theresa and Martine, to marry.

Giovanni pushed the thoughts aside. Katarina was going to marry him on Sunday. He thought about her now, ignoring Pierre's chatter and imagining Katarina standing before him in white. She would be so beautiful; she would probably wear flowers in her hair. She would become his, and he hers, and the thought made him wish that the days would fly by.

~xXx~

Katarina's happiness was Esmerelda's happiness, and Esmerelda's happiness was his. Esmerelda was examining the white tablecloth; it would undoubtedly be turned into a wedding dress for Katarina now. Phoebus didn't care much about losing the tablecloth. Giovanni was a good man. It was clear that he loved Katarina very much, and that was all that really mattered to Phoebus.

Phoebus had always secretly hoped for a son, but found that he was more than content with Katarina. She tended to act more like a boy anyway, which had puzzled him at first. She was sixteen now, far too old to be running like a child, but she continued to do so anyway. It was as though she simply couldn't stand still. Giovanni was forever running after her; he was finally able to overtake her, but he rarely did. He really was the perfect match for her.

Perhaps having children would divert some of her energy. It felt strange to imagine her swollen with pregnancy or even holding a baby; Phoebus had never seen Esmerelda that way either, and this stung him. Still, the past was far too depressing to think about. On Sunday, Katarina would be married. Phoebus would be the one to give her away. He would join her hand with Giovanni's, and he would watch as they danced. He had only recently begun to hope that he could dance at her wedding. It would be difficult with one leg, of course, but miracles had happened before, and perhaps one would occur again.

~xXx~

"I found it in Russia, and it made me think of you."

Rosalie chuckled, taking the little wooden figure from Heracles. It was large and round, almost shapeless, and had a smiling face painted on it. "Why on earth would it remind you of me?"

"Well, open it up."

"It opens?" Rosalie twisted the little wooden figure in her hands, gasping as it snapped in two. The figure was hollow; a smaller, nearly identical figure was nestled within it.

"There's more." In total, there were six little wooden figures, all fitting perfectly inside of each other. Rosalie lined them up. The smallest one was so tiny! Its little painted face smiled up at her. "I thought you would like it."

"I do," she said, though she secretly thought that Marie would enjoy it far more. After all, it was clearly a toy. Marie was thirteen, far too old for toys and dolls, but she loved them anyway. She still slept clutching her doll each night. "Marie would love this."

"Oh. Well, I did get her one too." He handed her a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. Rosalie took it from him, smiling. She liked Heracles well enough; she didn't see him terribly often. The circus had recently expanded its route. It moved through France, Italy, Germany, and now Russia too. He was away for months at a time. She supposed that he enjoyed it, that he loved traveling too much to abandon it for anyone or anything.

There were times, though, when it seemed as though he'd give it up all for her, and this bothered her. She was more than content to see him sporadically. She liked him only as a friend, of course, but sometimes wondered if she would find him more attractive if he was…different. He was tall and muscular, towering over everyone he came into contact with. He was strong too, able to lift great weights and carry them around as though they weighed nothing. His body reminded her too much of other men she'd encountered, men who were now dead but had harmed her in ways she'd never thought possible.

She rarely allowed herself to think of what had happened three years ago, but lately the soldiers had entered her dreams. She woke up gasping, their laughter echoing in her head. She didn't tell anyone, of course. Pierre and Marie did not need to know what had happened to her; as far as she knew, they were blissfully ignorant of it. Clopin knew about it, of course, as did Cassandra, but she didn't discuss it with them. She didn't want their pity.

"I'm glad that you like it," Heracles was saying. He touched her shoulder, and she brushed his hand away.

"It's beautiful," she said, forcing herself to ignore the hurt in his eyes. She tucked the little wooden figure into one of her pockets. "I – I've got work to do, though – "

"Of course!" she could tell that his smile was forced. "I'll see you later, though. We'll be staying in Lyon for the rest of the week."

"Are you coming to the wedding?"

"Oh, we wouldn't miss it for anything!" Heracles laughed now, "I still can't believe our little tomboy is getting married!"

It had been amusing and slightly embarrassing when Heracles and the rest of the circus had learned of Katarina's true identity. They'd understood, of course, the need for her disguise; she was fleeing a powerful, oppressive stepfather and had needed to remain concealed. Heracles had taken to calling her "little tomboy" and "Katarina-Carlo," names which made Katarina laugh despite herself.

Katarina had grown up to be relatively pretty. She was still much too tall and rail-thin, and she had kept her lovely blonde hair cut short. Rosalie had thought that she would look prettier if she let her hair grow out. It was very fine, though, and tangled easily; it was less of a hassle for Katarina to keep it closely cropped. It still framed her face nicely. Now she and Giovanni would be getting married.

~xXx~

He had memorized the more important passages from his father's journals, and he stood by the fire now, tossing them into the flames. He would not be able to take many material possessions with him when he joined the army. The journals were not terribly important anyway; his father's writing was factual and emotionless, and most of the entries consisted of a few sentences. _Esmerelda and I were wed last night. Esmerelda has borne me a daughter. Esmerelda has borne me a son, now I am truly blessed. Katarina's willfulness must be dealt with; perhaps sending her to a nunnery will benefit her. Jean-Claude continues to excel in his studies. It seems that Katarina is not my child; Esmerelda has confessed to me that she made love to another before we were married and that Katarina is actually the daughter of Phoebus de Châteaupers._

The mysterious sampler, the one bearing the words "Katarina Phoebus" now made sense. This Phoebus de Châteaupers was dead, of course, executed for treason. Perhaps that was what had caused his sister to run away; perhaps she'd learned that her real father had been hanged and fled. Jean-Claude's father would not have wanted Katarina to share Phoebus's fate. He had raised her as his own, after all. Still, Katarina had probably run away to spite him.

Jean-Claude did not burn the sampler. He wasn't sure why exactly, but he tucked it into his rucksack, along with his mother's jewelry. The jewelry could always be sold. He doubted that his mother would still want it, even if she was alive. He had managed to convince himself that she was dead, that she had probably committed suicide in her madness. Surely she was dead; she would have come back for him if she was still living. She wouldn't have allowed him to become a blacksmith's apprentice, and she certainly would not have let Arnaud touch him.

Jean-Claude watched as the journals burned, turning to ashes in the fireplace. He turned and put on his coat; dawn was still a few hours away, and it was dark and cold. He left the house, moving through the darkened yard and into the streets. He did not turn and look back. With luck, Arnaud would never come looking for him.


	3. Two Years Later, 1501

FOUR YEARS LATER (1501)…

"Here." He handed her the coins and watched as she slipped them into a little purple coin pouch. She was fairly pretty, a trait he'd noticed was uncommon for prostitutes. She was saying something to him in Spanish now. He shook his head; the few times he thought of his father, he cursed the old man for forcing him to learn Latin and Greek instead of a practical language. Jean-Claude was fluent in Latin, but it only aided him when he was in church, which he rarely was these days.

"You through with her yet?" René entered the room, sweeping the flimsy red curtain aside without waiting for a response.

"She's all yours." Jean-Claude buckled his belt. The prostitute was saying something to René, taking hold of his hand and motioning to the bed. René shook his head and said something in Spanish; the prostitute nodded, then knelt before him obediently. Jean-Claude left the room. "I'm going across the street."

"I don't know why you bother," called René, "we're all damned anyway."

Jean-Claude ignored him, stepping out of the dingy little room and into the street. He found it odd that a prostitute would do her business across the street from a church; perhaps it was more for her customers than for her. Her own soul was probably damned to Hell. Jean-Claude entered the church, crossing himself, and slid into the narrow confessional. He hoped that the priest spoke French.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three weeks since my last confession." The words came automatically, and Jean-Claude closed his eyes. The confessional was dark and quiet. He liked it.

"Ah…go ahead, my son." The priest's French was stilted and slow.

"I have made love to a woman I am not married to."

"Do you…how do you say? Do you intend to marry her, my son?"

"No, Father. She is a prostitute. I am engaged to a woman in Paris."

It was always the memory of Cosette that drove him to confess his infidelities. If God could forgive him, then surely she could too, though he would never tell her that he'd been with prostitutes. Once they were married, he would have no need for prostitutes. Once they were married, she would allow him to touch her, to hold her and caress her, to make love to her. She would satisfy the urges he felt.

He left the confessional, kneeling with his rosary. He prayed quickly, with his eyes shut. The prayer beads were worn and smooth; he'd had them since he was a boy. They made him think of his father now. His father would be ashamed to know that he'd been with a prostitute; he himself was ashamed of it. Once he married Cosette, though, it would all end.

His father would have been proud to know of his engagement to Cosette Valjean. She was a beautiful girl, and came from a relatively wealthy family. She came from a life he had once had, a life that he was determined to win back, no matter the cost. Her father was a merchant; Jean-Claude had had to prove himself to the old man. Naturally, he hadn't liked the idea of his daughter marrying a soldier. Soldiers tended to have short lives, after all, and there was a certain stigma attached to being a widow these days. Cosette was young and beautiful, much too young and beautiful to become a soldier's widow. Jean-Claude had recently been promoted to lieutenant, though, and Cosette's father was impressed.

"You started with nothing and worked your way up," he had said, "perhaps I will let you marry my daughter."

Jean-Claude was flattered, of course, but by no means satisfied to remain a lieutenant. Young as he was, he was determined to climb to the top, to reach the great destiny that his father had always promised him.

"You through yet?"

He turned and saw René seated beside him. "Yes."

They rose and left the church in silence. The prostitute was standing outside of her little room, and she waved at them. René winked at her. "Gypsies," he said. "Only good for one thing."

Jean-Claude glanced back at the prostitute. She did have the dark skin that came with Gypsy blood, and she wore bright, loose-fitting clothes. He shrugged. He had never told a soul that his own mother was a Gypsy, that her blood flowed through his veins. Of course, he didn't look like one. He'd inherited her thick, dark hair, but that was it. He had his father's pale complexion and blue eyes. "Yes," he said.

"I may visit that one again before we leave."

"We leave tomorrow, don't we?" Jean-Claude was eager to return to Paris. He would be seventeen in less than a month, and would be able to access his inheritance.

"Yes, but it won't take long. It never takes long with Gypsies. You spent more time with your rosary than you did with her."

He knew that the others laughed at him for attending confession, but he didn't care. His father had always told him that the act of confessing not only cleansed the soul, but eased the mind as well. Perhaps René didn't feel guilty for visiting prostitutes, but then again, René didn't have a fiancée waiting for him in Paris.

~xXx~

"If that's what having a baby sounds like, then I'm not going to have one."

"I'm quite sure your own mother said that when she was your age, but she had you, didn't she?"

Theresa rolled her eyes. "Still," she said, "it sounds like it hurts a great deal."

"I'm told that it does, but don't mention that to your cousin."

She looked over at Giovanni now. He was pacing back and forth, wringing his hands. "Hold the baby, will you?"

She took the baby from her father. Dante was three now, far too old to be called a baby. After all, he could walk and talk now. Theresa bounced him on her knee, making him laugh. He reached for her necklace now, and she let him grasp the pendant with his chubby hands. He held it up to his face, examining it.

"You're going to get a baby brother or sister," she said to him, "aren't you excited?"

"Yes." He looked at her, letting the pendant fall back against her breast. Theresa was told that he looked the way Giovanni had when he was three. She could see the resemblance. Dante had his father's straw-colored hair and blue eyes, but he had his mother's smile. Theresa glanced toward the house now where Katarina and the other women were. Another muffled cry came from within, and she rose. Perhaps this wasn't the best place to wait with Dante. Katarina's cries of pain were only growing louder and more frequent, and they were bound to frighten him sooner or later.

"Come," she said, putting him down and taking hold of his hand, "let's go see if we can find rabbits."

She led him along the path towards the woods. She had spent most of her young life on the outskirts of Lyon, living between the city and the thicket that surrounded it. She and her siblings had explored the woods to their heart's content. Dante was much too young to go into the woods, but she brought him with her occasionally. She never ventured far when she was with him; he was much too small to keep up with her anyway. She picked him up now, stepping onto the well-worn path.

"Now remember," she said, "we have to be very quiet."

"Because the rabbits hate noise."

"That's right."

"Shhhh!"

~xXx~

Living in Paris had not suited him, and neither had living in Lyon. Quasimodo had decided long ago that it was the solitude that made it unbearable. It was strange to live in a thriving city, surrounded by people, yet still feel so alone. It had not been comforting to see Esmerelda and Phoebus together either. Oh, it had been wonderful to find out that she was still alive, that Frollo was dead and that she was free of him; it hurt, though, to see her with Phoebus when Quasimodo still loved her so much.

Seeing their daughter made the pain even worse. Knowing that she and Phoebus were connected, that they had created a being of their love, and that no one would ever love him that way was too painful to bear. He'd accepted Frieda's offer, leaving Lyon almost as immediately as he'd arrived.

The circus was anything but lonely, and Quasimodo found that he wasn't simply to be put on display in the Freak Tent. He carved figures and sold them at a table outside of the tent. People marveled at the little carvings, rarely commenting on his own deformed appearance. He secretly loved the praise.

He loved the traveling even more. He'd spent well over twenty years locked up in the Notre Dame cathedral; he had never imagined a world outside of it, or Paris for that matter. The world was beautiful. The scenery was simply breathtaking; the cities bustling with all different kinds of people. The languages were strange to him. They sounded beautiful, though, and he'd managed to learn a few key phrases in German and Italian. Hans was fluent in several languages; Quasimodo wondered how he managed to keep all of them straight in his head.

He rarely watched the performances. He saw enough rehearsals to know how everything went. He'd occasionally watch Brunhilde and Conradine dance. They were amazing; Frieda had been right about them. People did indeed come from far and wide just to watch them dance. He loved to watch them. They were so graceful; they moved together perfectly. Their dancing truly drew the crowds, and often the audience would begin to dance. The Freak Tent would fill with people, all of them dancing. Joy and merriment hung in the air, spreading throughout the circus. Quasimodo loved it. He'd rarely known or even seen such happiness; it filled his heart until he thought he would burst.

~xXx~

She was not one to believe in omens, but she'd had the nightmare again, and she now wondered if it had been a warning of some sort. Katarina was having her second baby, and the second birth was always easier than the first one. This was not the case. Katarina was sobbing, gripping her mother's hand. The baby within her was being stubborn; Rosalie wondered if she would have to reach inside of her and pull it out. She wiped her hands on her apron and turned to Marie.

She knew that Marie did not want to be a midwife, but it was the only skill she could offer her daughter. Marie's deafness prevented her from dancing, and Rosalie did not want her to steal as Pierre did. The punishment for stealing was a harsh one; Pierre had been caught and was now missing the little finger on his left hand. It would undoubtedly be worse for Marie simply because she was a girl. Though the guards in Lyon weren't anywhere near as perverse as the ones in Paris, Rosalie still worried about her only daughter's safety.

She motioned to Marie now, and Marie came forward timidly. "Go fetch some more hot water," said Rosalie. Marie nodded, turning and scurrying back to the hearth where a kettle was being heated. She hefted the kettle, half-carrying-half-dragging it over to where Katarina lay. Rosalie dipped both her hands into the warm water.

"Katarina," she said, her voice loud and calm, "I have to reach inside of you to get the baby."

Katarina groaned. "It hurts so much – "

"I know, I know."

She took a deep breath, and reached inside of Katarina. Katarina cried out; Rosalie felt her muscles tighten. She could feel the baby now, soft and warm and slick. She gripped it and pulled slowly and gently. "Katarina, you have to help me," she called, "you have to push."

Katarina screamed now. Rosalie eased the baby out of her. It wasn't breathing, and Rosalie felt her heart quicken. She heard a dull thud from behind her, but ignored it. The baby wasn't breathing. She cut the cord connecting it to Katarina and lifted it up towards her face. She pried the baby's mouth open; it was filled with a clear gooey fluid. Rosalie bent, pressing her mouth to the baby's, and sucked the fluid out. She turned and spat, noticing for the first time that Marie was lying on the floor. She had fainted. Rosalie barely had time to contemplate her daughter's situation; the baby in her arms began to cry.

"Esmerelda," she called, "come hold your granddaughter for a moment."

Esmerelda rushed to her, her green eyes wide with delight. "Oh God, Rosalie, she's beautiful!" Rosalie turned back to Katarina. The baby was out, but there was the afterbirth to deal with. She wished that Marie had not fainted, but she simply had no time to deal with her; Esmerelda would have to wash the baby. Rosalie could hear her talking to the baby, cooing at her and telling her how beautiful she was.

"My…my baby?"

"You have a girl," she said, looking up at Katarina. Katarina lay there, exhausted and in too much pain to move. Rosalie cleaned her, gently running the white towels over her legs. She straightened now, moving over to Katarina and helping her sit up. "That was difficult, I know," she said, "but you're all right now."

Katarina nodded. She reached for the baby now, and Esmerelda handed it to her with some reluctance. Rosalie watched for a moment as Katarina held the baby, smiling down at it. She turned to Marie now and knelt beside her, shaking her shoulder.

"Come on," she said, knowing that Marie couldn't hear her, "get up, Marie."

Marie stirred, opening her eyes. Rosalie helped her sit up. Marie looked around, bewildered. "You fainted," said Rosalie. Marie sighed, making the motions with her fingers that meant 'I'm sorry.' Rosalie helped her to her feet. She did not like to think that Marie was useless, but sometimes it seemed as though she couldn't do anything. The birthing process was difficult, Rosalie knew that; it was painful and gory. Clopin had vomited after watching his son being born, and Giovanni would not have faired much better if he'd been here with Katarina. Still, though, Rosalie wondered what else she could teach Marie. She had to earn her own money somehow.

"Go fetch Giovanni," she said, pointing to the door. Marie nodded and ran from the house, letting the door slam behind her.

Rosalie returned to the basin of water and began washing her hands. The water became clouded with blood, and it reminded Rosalie of the nightmare. She shuddered as it spilled back into her mind; the soldiers, all four of them, on top of her, inside of her. She'd woken up convinced that she could still feel the pain between her legs. She wondered now if the dream had had anything to do with Katarina's difficult birth. The baby had very nearly died; she herself had been so certain that she would die too, convinced that the soldiers would tire of her and slit her throat.

She knew that dreams meant nothing. Dreams were merely fragments of memories. These memories, however, would not stop haunting her.

~xXx~

René was not his equal, at least, not in rank. René was, however, the closest thing he had to an intellectual equal. Most of the other soldiers that Jean-Claude had encountered were illiterate peasants. René, on the other hand, was well-read and fluent in Spanish; Jean-Claude liked him enough to consider him a friend.

Jean-Claude leaned against the wall, bracing himself as another chilly gust of wind rattled past him. He wondered briefly why he had bothered accompanying René. He knew that he would not be visiting the Gypsy prostitute. He had no desire for her company.

"You want a go at her?" René appeared beside him, adjusting his belt. Behind him, the prostitute was smoothing her skirt. She looked at Jean-Claude and said something in Spanish, holding her hand out.

"No."

"Are you certain? She may very well be the last girl we see until we reach Paris…"

"I'm certain."

René shrugged. He turned to the prostitute, saying something to her in Spanish. Jean-Claude watched as René goosed her, then handed her some coins. She disappeared back into her room, clutching the coins.

"I don't know why you follow me everywhere."

"I'm your lieutenant," said Jean-Claude. "It's my job to make sure you don't get into trouble."

René laughed. "Are you sure you're not here to make me go to confession?"

"You can go if you want to. I certainly won't force you."

" 'Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,' " mimicked René, " 'I've been with the whore who lives across the way.' You know, it wouldn't surprise me if the priest has been with her too!"

"That's only because nothing surprises you."

"True," said René. "When will you and Cosette finally marry?"

"When her father decides I'm good enough for her," said Jean-Claude bitterly. If his own father was still living, he was fairly certain that he'd be married to Cosette right now. If his life had not been completely and utterly destroyed by his father's death, he'd be a lawyer right now, or possibly a judge, and Cosette would be his.

René rolled his eyes. "I don't know why you waste your time trying to prove yourself to him," he said, "just take Cosette and run away with her! She'd go with you willingly, wouldn't she?"

Jean-Claude had briefly considered the option. He was quite certain that Cosette would follow him to the ends of the earth out of love. Even though she would not let him touch her until they were married, she did love him very much. Still, it would cause a scandal if he ran off with her, and he knew that she couldn't live with such shame. Even if they left the country, even if they went somewhere where no one knew them, she would still feel it. She could no more disgrace her family name than she could make love to him before they were wed.

"I'm going to prove myself to him," said Jean-Claude, "and once I have, Cosette and I will be married."


	4. Still 1501

STILL 1501…

"You've been brooding like that for most of the day. What's the matter?"

Heracles shrugged. He couldn't really name the feeling that seethed within him, and he certainly didn't want to discuss it with anyone. Quasimodo was looking at him, his misshapen blue eyes calm and unblinking. His hands moved quickly over the piece of wood he was holding and wood shavings littered the ground by his feet; he was forever carving things. "Oh, it's nothing."

"Is it because we're staying here for another week?"

"No. I like this town. We make good money here."

Quasimodo shrugged. "You seemed excited about heading back to France, to Lyon in particular."

"It doesn't matter," said Heracles. He said it more to himself than to Quasimodo. It didn't matter whether or not he ever returned to Lyon. Rosalie would never look at him in a romantic light. She'd made that perfectly clear. She was content to see him whenever he happened to come into town, and she was content to share a meal with him, but she would never want anything more.

He knew that something horrible had once happened to her. It was a dark sort of knowledge that hovered in the back of his mind, and he did not like to contemplate it. She'd been raped; that was probably the reason for her distance. The first time he'd seen her, she'd been disheveled and covered with bruises. There had been a wild, defensiveness in her eyes, something dark, protective, and almost feral, as though she'd rip his throat open if he even so much as looked at her.

The fierceness had faded for the most part, but sometimes he still saw it. If he touched her or stood too close he saw it rise up within her like a reflex. He hated it. He wanted to tell her that he wasn't like the men who'd raped her. He would never hurt her. He wanted to hold her and be tender with her, he wanted to show her that he could be gentle and loving.

Perhaps it wasn't the soldiers, though; perhaps she refused him out of loyalty to her deceased husband. Someone had told him that Pierre was the spitting image of his late father, and he could see it in the way Rosalie sometimes looked at him. Sometimes, her eyes filled with such sorrow when she saw Pierre, like she was looking at a ghost. Perhaps Rosalie had locked her heart after her husband died.

"What are you carving?"

"A gift for Frieda." Quasimodo handed him the carving. "Her birthday's next week."

"Damn, I'd forgotten." The carving was only half-finished, but lovely nonetheless. It was a carved portrait. Frieda's smiling face was perfectly outlined. It seemed to spring out of the wood. "This is amazing."

"Oh, it isn't finished yet," said Quasimodo, taking it from him. He ran his hand over the carving, trailing his large fingers along the ridges that would later be shaped into Frieda's wild red curls.

"I'm sure she'll love it."

"I hope she does. Did Rosalie like the gift you gave her?"

"Yes." He doubted it, though. She had smiled, of course, accepted the little nesting dolls graciously. She had treated the dolls the same way she treated him, like nothing more than a friend.

~xXx~

Katarina was sleeping when he arrived. Esmerelda was sitting by the window, rocking the new baby in her arms while Dante played on the floor by her feet. Phoebus lifted his grandson, scooping the little boy up into his arms. Dante laughed, only to be shushed by Esmerelda.

"It was a difficult birth," she whispered. "She's asleep."

He hated the idea of his daughter being in any sort of pain. He went to Katarina's room now, still carrying Dante. He eased the door open. The room was dark and peaceful. Katarina lay on her side. The bed sheets were bunched around her waist. Phoebus entered the room slowly, trying his best to be quiet. He adjusted the sheets, pulling them up to Katarina's shoulders.

Her eyelids fluttered. "Father?"

"I just wanted to see how you were," he whispered.

She smiled weakly. "I'll be all right."

"Hello, Mama."

"Is that my little Dante?" Katarina reached for him, and Phoebus placed the little boy beside her. Dante snuggled close to his mother, kissing her cheek. "Are you being good for your grandfather?"

"Yes, Mama."

"My darling boy…" she kissed his face now, ruffling his hair. Phoebus sat down on the edge of the bed. Watching Katarina and Dante made his heart swell with happiness. Despite her pain and exhaustion, Katarina was happy. Despite everything that had happened to her, everything she had been through, she was here with him, cuddling with her son. Phoebus sighed, rubbing her shoulder. She looked at him, smiling. She had her mother's eyes and her unbreakable spirit. He loved her so much.

"Where's Giovanni?" she asked.

"I think Pierre took him out to celebrate."

Katarina chuckled. "Well," she said, "when he gets back, will you tell him I've decided on a name for the baby?"

"Of course. What is it?"

"Either Musetta or Eponine. I haven't made up my mind yet."

"Well, I hardly call that deciding…"

Katarina laughed again. "Which do you prefer?"

Phoebus stroked her hair now. It was soft and somewhat damp with her sweat. "I think I like Musetta."

Katarina nodded. "Then Musetta it is." She kissed Dante's forehead. "Have you met your new sister yet?"

"A little bit," he said. "She's sleeping, and Grandmother says I mustn't wake her."

"Babies spend most of their time sleeping," said Katarina. "When you were a baby, it was all you ever did!"

She yawned now, her eyelids drooping. "Come on, Dante," said Phoebus, lifting the boy. "Your mother needs her rest."

"Feel better, Mama."

"I will soon, darling boy, I will."

He left, carrying Dante. Esmerelda looked up at him, smiling. For a brief instant, seeing her holding the small blonde child was too much for him; it was how she must have looked when she'd held Katarina. Phoebus knew that it was pointless to think about the past, that it only hurt him, but he wished that things had turned out differently. He wished that he had been able to marry Esmerelda when they were both young, he wished he could have raised a family with her. She smiled at him, and he wondered if she harbored the same wish.

Still, painful as the past was, the present was all that mattered. Esmerelda was here, and their daughter was in the next room asleep. Their grandchildren were here too; Dante was wiggling in his arms, eager to get down and resume his play. "Come on," he said to the squirming child, "let's go outside."

~xXx~

Marching was dull, monotonous, and silent. René supposed that the silence was what he hated the most. He didn't have much to say, but he longed to be able to at least talk to someone. Jean-Claude was ahead of him, marching in the front with the captain and the other high-ranking officers.

Jean-Claude was truly the perfect soldier, and this was why he was the youngest lieutenant in the army. At this rate, he'd become Captain of the Guard before he turned twenty. Jean-Claude followed orders. He did this almost mindlessly, which René found a bit frightening. He was quick on his feet and incredibly smart, but he did whatever he was told, almost as though he couldn't think for himself. It was eerie.

He liked talking to Jean-Claude, though. Unlike everyone else in the platoon, Jean-Claude was educated. He'd read most, if not all, of the classics and was actually fluent in Latin. This, of course, was absolutely useless, but it impressed others nonetheless. Jean-Claude was very serious. René could count the times he'd seen him smile on one hand, and was certain that he'd never seen him laugh. He wondered how lovely Cosette could be attracted to such a stern, serious man.

René had met Cosette Valjean once, and he'd known from the very start that she and Jean-Claude were meant for one another. She was thin and pale, and, like Jean-Claude, she rarely smiled. She was beautiful, though, and René secretly wondered what it would be like to make love to her. She was so chaste, so reserved, nothing like the prostitutes he and Jean-Claude had visited. Jean-Claude, of course, had been appalled the first time René had taken him to a brothel. He knew that Jean-Claude hated brothels, that he hated prostitutes, but he visited them anyway. He let the whores satisfy him, then he went to church afterwards to confess his sins. If Heaven existed, then Jean-Claude would be the only soldier there.

René found his thoughts drifting to the pretty little Gypsy prostitute he'd been with less than five hours ago. She was nothing like Cosette; René had noticed that Jean-Claude would occasionally go after prostitutes who resembled his beloved. René himself was not so picky, but he had been surprised that Jean-Claude had gone with him to see the Gypsy prostitute. Jean-Claude tended to avoid Gypsies. They lied and stole, he said, which was true; the women, though, made excellent whores. They were quick, efficient, and above all, cheap. Some of them were even good-looking.

~xXx~

She loved dancing. She felt so free and alive, like one of the twirling birds that flitted through the forest. It always thrilled her when people stopped to watch her or threw coins into the hat by her feet. She knew that her father didn't much care for it. He worried that she was "provocative," whatever that meant. Theresa didn't care. Her father didn't control her, after all, and he never complained when she handed him the hat filled with coins at the end of each day.

"You're young," he told her, "and you're very pretty. I worry about the way men look at you."

Men did look at her, but so did women and children. To her, the stares were all the same. She knew though, that her body was beginning to change in ways that men would find attractive. Her monthly curse had started, and she found herself wishing that she was a boy so she wouldn't have to deal with it.

"Are you sure there's no way to make it stop?" she'd asked her mother over and over.

"If it stops, it means that you're pregnant," her mother had said, "and pregnancy is much worse than the monthly curse is." Theresa found that hard to believe, but she knew better than to question her mother about such things. She had vowed never to get pregnant after hearing Katarina give birth to little Musetta; the screaming had been endless, and she'd overheard her mother whispering about how difficult it had been. Her sister, Martine, played with dolls and pretended that they were babies, and she knew that someday Martine marry and have a baby of her own. Not Theresa, though; if marriage led to babies, then she would never marry.

~xXx~

He had never been so drunk in all his life, and he was suddenly very grateful that Pierre was there with him. He leaned against Pierre, struggling to make his legs work properly. He'd stayed in the tavern longer than he'd intended to, and he was certain that Katarina would be upset.

"We're almost home…I think…"

"No, I can see a light in the window. Oh, I'd hoped Katarina was sleeping…"

"What did you name the baby?" asked Pierre.

"I'm not sure," replied Giovanni, "I think it was Musetta."

"That's a lovely name."

Giovanni nodded. The world looked thick and fuzzy. He was beginning to regret several of the beers he'd consumed. Pierre shifted, sliding his arm around his waist, letting Giovanni lean against him. Giovanni approached the small, two-room house he shared with Katarina; he quickened his pace as best he could. It suddenly felt as though Pierre was too close to him. Pierre seemed oblivious to this; he was saying something about his mother now, how she hadn't been in the tavern with them, which had been a bit unusual. Giovanni thought he felt Pierre's hand pressed against his leg. He could clearly feel the thumb and three remaining fingers of Pierre's left hand pressed flat against his thigh.

"Congratulations again," said Pierre. "About the baby." Giovanni managed to pull away from him. He opened the door, smiling back at Pierre.

"Thank you," he said.

Pierre suddenly stepped forward, hugging him tightly. He stank of beer. Giovanni patted his shoulder, slowly easing out of the hug. His eyelids felt heavy, and he desperately wanted to sleep now. "You're a good friend, Pierre," he said.

"I'm a drunk friend, that's what I am," said Pierre, laughing as he turned and staggered off. Giovanni watched as he disappeared into the shadows, then entered the house, closing the door behind him.

He moved through the darkness slowly, trying his best to be quiet. He entered the darkened bedroom and slid into bed beside Katarina. He felt her roll over and move closer to him. "You're back," she said, her voice heavy with sleep.

"I'm sorry I was gone so long," he said. "They kept buying me beer."

"I can smell it."

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine," she said. He slid his arms around her, letting her rest her head on his chest. His eyes were beginning to close when he heard the baby cry. He felt Katarina sit up and climb out of bed. He sat up as well, reaching and lighting a candle on the bedside table. He watched as Katarina bent over the cradle, gently lifting the small white bundle from it. On the other side of the room, Dante stirred in his cot, sitting up and rubbing his eyes sleepily.

"Is the baby all right?"

"Go back to sleep, dear," said Katarina. "The baby just needs to eat." She returned to the bed, settling in before she began to nurse the baby.

"Come here, Dante." He motioned, and his son came to him, still rubbing his eyes. He lifted the boy, placing him on his lap. Katarina looked at him; he could see disapproval in her eyes. "I just want to see my family all together," he explained.

"All right."

She leaned against his shoulder. Dante snuggled against him, his little blue eyes closing. He stroked his hair, watching as Katarina nursed the baby. The baby's eyes were large and bluish, and her hair was so fine it looked as though she was bald. She stared up at Katarina and nursed eagerly. "I love you," whispered Giovanni, "I love you all."

"I love you, too," said Katarina. He kissed her on the cheek. He knew that he would have to place Dante back in his cot soon, but he held the little boy, savoring the warmth that seemed to emanate from him. This was his family. He had a wife and two children; he wasn't sure if he could remember a time when he'd felt happier.


	5. Four Years Later, 1505

**FOUR YEARS LATER (1505)…**

Though Paris was filled with Gypsies, though Arnaud and his groping hands lurked somewhere within its darker corners, he still loved the city. He'd recently been promoted to Captain of the Guard, and Cosette's father was more than impressed. Jean-Claude had overheard people saying that he was probably the youngest soldier ever to receive such a promotion. The praise felt empty when compared with the actual job, though.

It was his duty to oversee the Parisian guards, to make sure that they completed their rounds and arrested the right criminals. Jean-Claude led the marketplace patrols himself, and regularly ventured into the Court of Miracles. The Court had been abandoned by Gypsies for several years, but they'd returned to it like moths to a flame. He enjoyed and loathed it at the same time. It swarmed with Gypsies, all of whom feared and respected him. He would gaze out over the crowds, his eyes scanning the dark, dirty faces for his mother and sister. They were nowhere to be found, of course.

He'd heard whispers of them, however, that they were still alive but no longer in Paris. He was determined to find them, though he couldn't say why exactly. He had no real desire to include them in his life. If Cosette's father knew of his true parentage, that his mother was just a common Gypsy whore who had bewitched his father, he would call off the wedding. Jean-Claude couldn't bear for that to happen. He loved Cosette, and being apart from her would surely drive him mad. No, he did not want to pull his mother and sister back into his life.

He supposed that he wanted answers. He wanted to know why his mother had never come back for him, why she had abandoned him and left him to Arnaud's hands. He wanted to know why Katarina had fled, why she had knowingly destroyed all he had ever loved and known. He wanted answers.

"I want you to answer my question."

"Mercy!" the old Gypsy man strapped to the chair thrashed, twisting as best he could. Jean-Claude stared down at the iron boot he'd fastened to the man's foot. He supposed he could continue to tighten it. It was already tight enough; blood was beginning to drip from the slits in the iron.

"Answer me and I will show you mercy."

"All right, there's a girl who lives in Lyon," gasped the man, shuddering. "I think her name is Katherine. She has fair hair and lives with the Gypsies."

Jean-Claude knelt now, removing the boot. The man groaned with relief. His bare foot had not been completely crushed; it was possible that he'd be able to walk again one day. Jean-Claude cast the boot aside and rose. He left the room, nodding to the guard in the hallway. "Clean him up and throw him in the dungeon for a few days," he said.

"Yes, sir."

He would be leaving for Lyon in a few days anyway. Cosette's grandparents lived there, and they wanted to be the ones to announce the wedding. He did not like the idea of leaving Paris, but he knew that it would not fall apart in his absence. He would return in a week and would resume his work. He would marry Cosette and be happy with her. He would go to Lyon and kill two birds with one stone; he would meet Cosette's grandparents, and he would at least find Katarina. Perhaps she could answer some of his questions.

~xXx~

She knew that she shouldn't worry so much about Marie, but she was couldn't help it. The worrying kept the nightmares at bay, if only for a little while. The nightmares had only grown worse; they came during the day now, while she was awake, and this terrified her. Worrying about Marie distracted her, but she knew that it was only temporary. The nightmares would return when she let her guard down.

She had come to the conclusion that Marie could not be a midwife. She didn't have the stomach for it and was always fainting or vomiting at the sight of blood. Her deafness and Gypsy heritage prevented her from many other occupations. Rosalie secretly feared that her only daughter would be forced to turn to prostitution. She hoped and prayed that someone would marry Marie, preferably someone with an honest job and plenty of money. She hoped that it would not be the Russian boy whose Gypsy clan had arrived a few months ago.

She could never remember the Russian boy's name and she could barely understand him when he talked. He did not know much French, but he had somehow managed to communicate with Marie. They used finger-symbols that they'd made up together, and Rosalie couldn't understand them. This frightened her to no end. She didn't know what this boy was saying to her daughter. She didn't know what her daughter was saying back. She'd asked Pierre to keep an eye on them, to make sure that the boy behaved appropriately, and Pierre assured her that he did. Pierre seemed distracted, though, like his mind was somewhere else, and besides, he couldn't spend every second with his little sister.

The farmers on the outskirts of Lyon were kind to Gypsies. They let them work in their fields in exchange for food or sometimes money. There was one woman who paid Marie to look after her three children on occasion; more often than not, the woman remained in her house while Marie and the Russian boy played outside with the children. The children were small, the oldest couldn't be more than five.

"You are the mother of Marie, da?"

She nodded. "Yes, I am."

The Russian boy was tall and was missing two fingers from his left hand. The wound looked like an old one, but it reminded Rosalie of Pierre's missing finger. She'd told him time and time again to stop stealing, that it was what had gotten his father killed, that it would eventually get him killed as well, but he refused to listen. She hoped that this Russian boy wasn't a thief; Marie deserved better.

"She says I am to fetch you please," said the boy, "there is problem in house."

He led her to the farmhouse. This was the house where Marie watched the children; it was enormous when compared with Rosalie's own dwelling, which was a windowless, one-roomed shack. Marie was sitting outside, watching as the two older children picked daisies. She was holding the third one on her lap. Rosalie bent, bringing her face into Marie's line of vision. "What's the matter?" she asked.

Marie set the child down on the ground beside her and began moving her hands. The woman in the house, the children's mother, had a headache. She couldn't bear to look at the light, and she was weeping from the pain. Rosalie nodded. She knew of a few herbal remedies, and rushed back to her shack for the proper herbs. She found them, crushing them into a fine powder and adding water, creating a thick paste.

The Russian boy was waiting outside for her, and this startled her. She hadn't known that he had followed her. He followed her back to the farmhouse. She ignored him. She let herself inside, momentarily surprised when he didn't follow her there too. The house was dark, the curtains tightly drawn over the windows. Rosalie looked around, slightly jealous of this woman. The house had more than one room, naturally, and good furniture too. There was a tablecloth on the table, along with a small pot filled with wildflowers. Esmerelda had been the only person Rosalie had ever known to own a tablecloth, and it had been turned into a wedding dress for Katarina.

"Who is it?"

Rosalie followed the voice into another room. This was a bedchamber, and it was much darker than the front room she had passed through. The woman in the bed was thin and pale, her body completely hidden beneath blankets. She stared at Rosalie, frowning.

"I'm Marie's mother," said Rosalie, whispering. She sat down beside the woman and began mixing the paste with her fingers. "She came and told me you had a headache."

The woman nodded. "I've had them before," she said, "but this is the worst one. Everything hurts."

"I have a remedy," said Rosalie. She gently rubbed the paste onto the woman's forehead.

"Thank you," said the woman. "I'll give Marie an extra coin if it works."

She closed her eyes, and Rosalie left the room, shutting the door behind her. Marie was still sitting with the youngest child in her lap when she emerged from the house. The Russian boy was standing, leaning against the house by the door. Marie was watching the other two children intently and rose and went over to them. The older one had struck his younger sibling, and the sibling was now sobbing. Marie knelt between the children; she was shaking her finger at the little boy, silently scolding him. Rosalie was surprised to find that the little boy looked ashamed for what he'd done. She'd assumed that the child wouldn't bother with a nanny who couldn't talk to him.

"The lady, is she good?"

She turned to the Russian boy and nodded. "She'll be all right." She looked at the boy. "What's your name?"

He stared at her, shaking his head. "You speak with too fast."

She pointed at him. "Your name. What is it?"

"Dmitri," he said, pointing to himself. "I am called Dmitri."

She nodded, pointing to his hand now. "What happened to your hand?"

"It was accident," he said. He turned, pointing to the field. Rosalie could see Pierre and Giovanni emerging from the wheat field, carrying scythes slung over their shoulders. "My brother, he swing and not see me. It happen years ago." Dmitri turned back to her. "Marie says you are…" he mimed holding a baby in his arms.

"I'm a midwife."

"Da, you to help with the baby?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"Is good thing! My brother's wife – " he pointed to his stomach, "is to have baby soon. You can help, da? If we pay?"

"Yes."

"Is good thing! Here, I take you to meet her." He rushed to Marie, tapping her shoulder. She looked up at him; he was moving his hands now, undoubtedly telling her that he would return shortly. She nodded, smiling at him.

He grabbed Rosalie by the hand now, and though it startled her, she didn't pull away. He was leading her to the Russian Gypsies' camp, towards a large caravan in the middle of it. He entered without knocking, shouting something in Russian. Despite the caravan's largeness, its interior was filled with people and cramped. He brought her towards a narrow bed, where a woman was lying on her back. She was swollen with pregnancy, and Rosalie wondered how she'd been able to travel in her condition. Once the stomach began to swell and the baby to show, it was not wise to move about in a rickety caravan.

Dmitri was talking to the woman now, pointing at Rosalie. Rosalie sat beside her, smiling reassuringly. She touched the woman's stomach and was relieved to feel the baby kick within her. If the baby was still healthy enough to kick, then the trip didn't do that much damage. She ran her hands along the woman's stomach; it felt hard, like she had a moving stone inside of her instead of a baby.

"Three days," said Rosalie, holding up three fingers.

"That is when baby will come?" asked Dmitri.

Rosalie nodded. "Yes."

He turned and spoke to the woman now, holding up three fingers while he did so. The woman said something to him, nodding. "Anja says I am to come to you when the baby is ready," said Dmitri. "She says she is most thanking to you."

"It's fine," said Rosalie, "it's really no trouble."

~xXx~

She loved Lyon. It was such a pretty town, and she enjoyed living on the outskirts of it, near the farms and forests. She did not remember much about Paris; she had dim memories of the Court of Miracles. She preferred Lyon. The Court of Miracles had been underground. It had been dark and damp, and there had been no sky or wind or flowers.

Theresa loved the flowers most of all. She loved their vibrant colors, their delicate petals, their perfumes. She wore them in her hair, letting their sweet scent fill her nostrils as she danced. She knew that her parents did not much care for her dancing, that her father in particular worried about her. He claimed that men looked at her a certain way, and that this made him uncomfortable. Theresa supposed that the men looked at her differently than the women. She had noticed that men tended to throw more coins into her hat. One of the Russian Gypsies who had come to Lyon only recently had shouted something at her in another language; the man's wife had looked absolutely furious, and they had begun to argue.

Besides, dancing meant that she didn't have to spend time playing with Martine or working in the fields with her cousin. She'd been told that the farmers were extremely kind to let her friends and family work for them, but she herself found the manual labor boring and painful. Pulling weeds and minding small children was no fun. She loved dancing, moving and twirling freely.

~xXx~

"I'm coming to Lyon whether you like it or not, Jean-Claude. Someone will have to buy you a drink after Cosette's father announces the engagement."

Though he appeared outwardly annoyed, Rene knew that Jean-Claude was somewhat relieved to have the companionship. He would need someone to celebrate with when Cosette's father made the engagement official; and if the old man went back on his word, Jean-Claude would need someone to commiserate with. Either way, beer was involved, and that suited Rene. Paris would survive without them.

Jean-Claude rolled his eyes. "Fine," he said. "Arguing with you is an exercise in futility anyway."

"That's why you made me your lieutenant."

"I did it to keep you out of trouble, and because you're an excellent interrogator."

Rene shrugged. He wondered if he should really be so proud of being an 'interrogator.' Jean-Claude used fancy words to disguise what really happened in the dungeons of the Palace of Justice. 'Torturer' sounded too crass, too violent. 'Interrogator' had a certain dignity to it, it implied gentleness and sophistication. It certainly did not imply using metallic devices to make people talk.

Jean-Claude did more of the interrogating than Rene. He had a voracious hunger for the truth and would stop at nothing to get it. His victims would crack before he even touched them, and he was appropriately merciful. He harbored an intense hate for Gypsies, though, coming down on them harshly when they broke the law. All Gypsies were liars and thieves, this was true, and Jean-Claude made examples out of the guilty ones he caught. Still, Rene wondered what his mother would say if she saw him there in the cell, strapping prisoners into straight-backed chairs while Jean-Claude prepared to torture them.

"Soldier! Soldier, I ask a favor!"

Rene tugged on his horse's reins, stopping and looking down at the old woman. Her hair was snowy-white and she spoke with a thick Italian accent. She waved up at him, shuffling towards him. "What is it?" he asked.

"Are you going to Lyon, soldier?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Ah, good!" She handed him an envelope. "Can you deliver a letter to my grandson?"

He looked down at the name on the envelope. "Well, I'll try," he said.

"Good boy." She handed him a gold coin. "I don't think he can read."

"I'll read it to him then."

"I thank you, soldier." She saluted them, and Rene found himself laughing as he rode off.

"Why did you do that?" asked Jean-Claude.

"Ah, why not? Besides, she reminded me of my own grandmother."

Jean-Claude shrugged. Rene slipped the envelope into his pocket. Lyon was a small town, and besides, the name on the envelope wasn't a common one. It would not be difficult to find Giovanni Trouillefou.


	6. Still 1505, Part I

STILL 1505…

She had seen the two Parisian soldiers on the road and now raced to find Marie. She didn't bother wondering why the soldiers were approaching, why there were only two of them; all she saw was the armor bearing the insignia of the Parisian guard. These men were monsters, just like their comrades, and she would not let them near her Marie. Marie was sitting outside with Dmitri and the three children. She was laughing and smiling, weaving a chain of flowers into a crown. She placed it onto the older child's head, and began plucking more flowers.

"Marie!" She reached down, grabbing hold of Marie's shoulder. Marie looked startled and let the flowers fall from her hands. "Come on," she said, pulling Marie to her feet. "We need to go."

Marie was pointing to the children, telling her that she couldn't leave them. Rosalie shook her head. "Dmitri will watch them," she said, "come on, we have to go."

She pulled Marie now, and Marie stumbled after her. "Hey! Where you are to going?" she heard Dmitri shout. He started to follow her, but one of the children had begun to cry and was now tugging on his pant leg. He stooped, lifting the child. "Come back!" he yelled. Rosalie ignored him, shoving open the door to her shack and dragging Marie inside.

"You must hide," she said, looking around frantically. The shack was sparsely furnished; there weren't many places to hide. She opened a large trunk and began removing the clothes that were neatly piled within, throwing them to the floor. She pointed to the trunk. "Inside," she said, "right now."

Marie shook her head, moving her hands now, demanding to know why. Rosalie pointed to the trunk; the soldiers were coming, they didn't have much time, and she would not let her daughter endure the suffering she had. "I saw two soldiers on the road," said Rosalie, "they are coming to Lyon. You have to hide."

Marie gasped, but instead rushed to the door. Rosalie grabbed her wrist, pulling her back before she could open it. Marie stared at her, her free hand moving now. She was more concerned with Dmitri and the children than with herself. Such a sweet, selfless girl, thought Rosalie, pulling her back towards the trunk. "Dmitri will be safe," she said. "He is a boy." She knew for a fact that the three children would be safe; after all, they were not Gypsies. Dmitri could very well be killed, but it would be best not to tell Marie. She gripped Marie's hands now, "those soldiers will rape you," she said. "Because you are a woman, because you are a Gypsy, they will rape you."

Marie only stared in disbelief. "Soldiers have no hearts," said Rosalie, "you are young and pretty, and they will hurt you. Now please hide in the trunk."

Marie made a low, guttural noise. Generally, she was silent, and it always surprised Rosalie when she made noises. Marie turned to the trunk and climbed inside of it. The trunk was not as big as Rosalie had thought, and Marie had to curl herself tightly to fit. Rosalie picked up the clothes she had thrown to the floor and piled them on top of Marie, hiding her completely. She closed the trunk and went to the door. Perhaps she could find Pierre and warn him about the guards. Marie would be safe in the trunk.

She was reaching for the door when suddenly there was a knock on it. Rosalie stared. It had been a stern, hard sound, the kind of sound soldiers made. They were here. She glanced over her shoulder at the trunk. Hopefully they would not find Marie. Hopefully they wouldn't find Pierre either. With any luck, he and the other Gypsies could come to her aid. She opened the door slowly.

"I'm looking for a man named Giovanni Trouillefou." The guard was young, probably no older than Marie. Rosalie shook her head; why on earth was he looking for Giovanni?

"You don't know him, then?"

"No," she said. "I'm afraid I don't."

The guard left. Rosalie watched him. He was approaching Dmitri now, who was standing with the three children. Dmitri was shaking his head, trying to explain that he couldn't understand. The soldier turned and left before Dmitri could even finish talking. He was heading towards the Russian side of the Gypsy camp. Rosalie waited until he had disappeared among the caravans before turning and rushing over to Clopin and Cassandra's caravan.

~xXx~

"Hey, Giovanni!"

He recognized Pierre's voice and turned. The heat was brutal, and Giovanni reached for his canteen. He took a long swallow of water. The farmers all said that the heat was due to break soon, that once the rains came it would cool down. So far, the sky was cloudless and bright.

Pierre was coming towards him, and he was followed by a boy wearing a soldier's uniform. "He says he has a letter for you," said Pierre, pointing over his shoulder at the soldier.

"Yes." The soldier stared at him, looking somewhat surprised. He handed Giovanni a folded envelope. Giovanni took it. The soldier was staring at him, as though he expected something.

"I don't have any money," said Giovanni, reaching into his knapsack. "I can give you a turnip – "

"Keep it," said the soldier, wrinkling his nose in disgust. He did not leave but continued to stare at Giovanni.

"Thank you," said Giovanni. He turned away from the soldier and opened the envelope. He heard the sound of clanking armor as the soldier turned and left.

"Who's it from?" asked Pierre, looking over his shoulder. Pierre was illiterate, and Giovanni let him stare at the words, knowing he couldn't understand them.

"Hey, who gave you this letter?" asked Giovanni, turning and rushing after the soldier. The letter was supposedly from his grandmother, his mother's mother; in it she claimed to have been searching for him for years.

"A woman in Paris," replied the soldier, "some old Italian lady."

Giovanni looked back down at the letter. His grandmother was in poor health and wanted to finally meet him before she died. She had inherited all of her daughter's money after her death, and she wanted to give some to Giovanni.

Giovanni was by no means poor, but he was not a rich man either. Katarina was pregnant with their third child; extra money would help a great deal. He knew nothing of his mother, or his grandmother for that matter. He suddenly wondered if Clopin knew anything about his grandmother. He couldn't remember his parents, and Clopin had really only told him that his mother had drowned after his father had died. Clopin had not been close with his brother, and he'd never really said why. Giovanni now wondered if they were related at all. He looked nothing like his uncle, or any of the Gypsies for that matter. What if he wasn't really Clopin's nephew?

The thought was a silly one; why would Clopin have raised a child who wasn't related to him? Giovanni looked down at the letter, ignoring the questions that Pierre was bombarding him with. The farm work could wait. It was far too hot anyway, and he had questions that needed to be answered.

~xXx~

Once they reached the Lyon, he and René went their separate ways, at least for the time being. Cosette's grandparents had not offered to let Jean-Claude stay in their house for the duration of his visit in Lyon. He supposed that he didn't mind. After all, if Cosette's father refused to let him marry her, staying with her family would be awkward. He found an inn and rented a room. It was clean and cheap, and the window overlooked the bustling street below.

Jean-Claude put his pack down and went to the window now, watching the people milling about in the street. A small crowd had formed, and he now saw that its members were watching a Gypsy girl dance. She smiled as she twirled, tapping her tambourine. Her dress was a deep yellow color, almost gold, and was trimmed with purple. Even from the room, Jean-Claude could hear the tambourine and the ringing of the tiny bells on the girl's belt.

She was beautiful, and Jean-Claude turned away from the window. He pulled the curtain closed. He was here to see Cosette, to convince her family that he was worthy of marrying her. He was not here to watch some Gypsy harlot dancing in the street; he could see plenty of that in Paris. Besides, the dancing Gypsy girl couldn't hold a candle to Cosette.

The innkeeper had provided him with a basin of water and some towels, and Jean-Claude washed his face. Cosette, pale and perfect, floated before his mind's eye, and he allowed himself to think of her. She was stunningly beautiful, with curly brown hair and sparkling blue eyes. Her skin was nearly the color of milk, and he was certain that it was soft to the touch. He had always longed to touch her face, to trail his fingers lovingly against her cheek. He had never done this, of course; to touch her before they were married would be improper.

Sweet, pure, chaste Cosette was far superior to the dirty Gypsy harlot who was dancing across the way. She undoubtedly sold herself in the alleyways after dark, like so many of the Gypsies of Paris did. How Jean-Claude could even think her beautiful baffled him now, and he laughed.

His room came with a mirror, and he stood before it and shaved. He always tried to appear clean-shaven; he found that his facial hair was as unruly as the hair on the top of his head, the black Gypsy hair that he had inherited from his mother. His hair was thick and seemed to grow too fast; Jean-Claude was forever cutting it. He nearly found himself longing for his father's baldness. Katarina was supposedly somewhere in this town. He wondered if he should bother finding her. What if she wanted to become a part of his life? She could certainly pass for a normal, respectable member of society, but he knew that she would not act like one. No, Katarina had run off with the Gypsies, and she would behave like one. She would lie and cheat and steal, and it would cause him endless disgrace. Still, perhaps she could give him some answers. Perhaps she knew what had become of their mother. Perhaps she would tell him why she had run away; perhaps she was repentant of it. Perhaps she would come back to Paris and lead a respectable life.

Jean-Claude doubted this. Katarina had been anything but respectful as a child, and she would not change her ways now. He would find her and get his answers from her, and he decided he would do this before seeing Cosette. Cosette's family wasn't expecting him until tomorrow anyway. He dried his face, running his hand over his chin to make sure he'd gotten every last unruly hair. He left the room, locking it behind him, and set out towards the Gypsy camps.

~xXx~

"What do you know about my mother?"

The question caught Clopin off-guard. Giovanni had rarely asked questions about his parents; he'd somehow been content without them for all these years. Clopin looked at him. Giovanni did not bear much resemblance to Maurice, though he bore enough of one to Gratiana. "Why do you ask?"

"I got this letter," he said, "from my grandmother." He took a piece of paper out of his pocket. "It says she's been searching for me and that she wants to meet me."

"It must be Gratiana's mother," said Clopin, "mine died in childbirth."

"I…I don't look like you…I mean, I don't look like a Gypsy…"

"You're only half-Gypsy," said Clopin, "your mother was Italian."

"Do I look at all like my father?"

Clopin shook his head. "No, but then, Maurice didn't look much like a Gypsy either." He sat down, patting the bench beside him. Giovanni sat. "Your father was…" he paused, looking for the right words, "blessed, you could say. He had fairer skin and hair than the rest of us. If he wore the proper clothes, he didn't look at all like a Gypsy. He…he left when he met your mother. He tried to hide the rest of us from her, thought she wouldn't love a Gypsy. He was ashamed of what he was."

Giovanni was staring down at the paper in his hands. "So he just left you?"

Clopin nodded. "I was a little younger than you, twenty, maybe. He married your mother and I never saw him again."

"How did my mother know to find you?"

"She met me once," he said. "Completely by accident, of course." He remembered the day with bitterness and decided not to tell Giovanni about it. He remembered the look of embarrassment in Maurice's eye, the way he had quickly turned to Gratiana and told her that his mother had been molested by a Gypsy, that his younger brother was the product of rape. Clopin remembered watching them, too stunned to speak; Gratiana had looked at him with disapproval, shaking her head. "She must have remembered me when your father died," said Clopin quickly. "Or perhaps he told her about me. I'm not sure."

"But she gave me to you before she…drowned?"

"Yes."

"Why wouldn't she give me to her mother?" asked Giovanni.

Clopin shrugged. "I'm not sure," he said. "Perhaps she thought her mother was too old. You would have worn her out, you know. You were an absolute devil when you were little."

Giovanni laughed. "What should I do about the letter?"

"Well, do you want to meet your grandmother?"

"I suppose so."

"Then you pack up and go to Paris for a few days," said Clopin. "You're a charming young man, I'm sure she'll love you. Bring Katarina."

"I don't know if she can travel in her condition," said Giovanni, "we'll have to ask Rosalie."

Clopin nodded. Katarina was pregnant with her third baby. Clopin was not sure of how far along she was; she looked as though she would have it any day now, though. "Maybe I shouldn't leave," said Giovanni, "she'll need help with Dante and Musetta, and the new baby…"

"And she has us to help her," said Clopin. "You know that Esmerelda won't leave her side for a moment, and I'll look after Dante and Musetta."

"Uncle, you've got your own family, you don't need to – "

"I like to think of it as practice for when I have grandchildren," said Clopin, interrupting him. He could see little Dante and Musetta approaching them now, running as fast as their short legs could carry them. Giovanni smiled at them, scooping them up onto his lap.

"Papa, will you tell us a story?"

"Does your mother know where you are?"

"She said to play outside," said Musetta, "her tummy is hurting because the baby won't stop kicking."

"Here," said Clopin, taking Musetta and pulling her onto his lap. "Let your old uncle tell you a story while your father goes to see if she's all right."

"Tell it with puppets!" Dante scrambled off of Giovanni's lap, sliding next to Clopin.

Clopin nodded to Giovanni. "Go see her," he said, "tell her about Paris. I'll watch them."

"Thank you." He left, rushing back to the little two-room house he shared with Katarina.

Clopin pulled a hand puppet out of his pocket. "Well," he said, "what sort of story would you like to hear?"

~xXx~

She knew that it was not time for the baby to come, but her stomach was hurting her, and she couldn't find the strength to stand up. She'd been getting pains like this for a little less than a week; Rosalie assured her that it was normal. She also seemed to think that she might be expecting twins, and this frightened Katarina. The house was starting to get too small for four people, adding two more would only crowd it further. Giovanni didn't make much money, though he was always able to bring home enough food for everyone. He would have to work harder than ever if she had twins; he was already exhausted when he came home at sunset. She hated to think that he was working himself to death.

She heard a knock at on the door and struggled to stand, but the pain was too great. "Come in!" she shouted.

The door opened quickly, and a boy wearing a soldier's uniform entered her house. He was polite enough to take his hat off, but his presence unnerved Katarina nonetheless. There was something about him that made her incredibly uncomfortable; something about him chilled her, as though a cloud had covered the sun. "Excuse me," he said, "I'm looking for a woman named Katarina Phoebus."

She stared at him. No one had called her 'Katarina Phoebus' in years. This boy was beginning to look familiar now, as though she might've seen him somewhere before. She found herself beckoning to him, and he stepped towards her, coming into the sunlight that poured in through the window. This boy was the near-spitting image of her false-father, the Judge. "Who are you?" she asked. She glanced at the window, wondering who else was about. Hopefully if she screamed someone would come rushing in.

"My name is Jean-Claude Frollo," he said.

Katarina gasped. "Jean-Claude?"

He sat down in the chair across from her. He had his father's piercing blue eyes, and their gaze made her uncomfortable. "You…you are Katarina, my sister?" his voice sounded as confused as she felt, and it eased some of the tension within her. At least he was as confused and uncomfortable as she was.

"Yes."

He was staring at her stomach now. "You…you're married?"

"Yes. This will be our third baby."

"I…I…why did you run away?" he asked.

Memories of the Judge came flooding back to her, and she shuddered. Memories of being trapped in a dark house, memories of shouting, memories of endless scolding and criticism, memories of her mother weeping…she shook them off. They were too much for her. "Jean-Claude, I had to," she said.

"Why?" he asked, "why did you? He gave you a good life – "

"No, Jean-Claude, he didn't. He wasn't my real father – "

"But he raised you as his own!"

"And he threatened to send me away!"

"Out of love, Katarina! Your immortal soul was in danger, and he feared for it. Would a nunnery really have been so terrible? Is living with Gypsies any better?"

"Jean-Claude, we are Gypsies."

He glared at her. "I don't live like one, Katarina. I…I'm living the way Father intended for me to." His expression softened somewhat. "Do…do you know what happened to Mother?"

She nodded. "She lives near here," she said. She was about to say more when the door swung open. She was relieved to find Giovanni standing in the doorway. He came to her, staring at Jean-Claude warily. "Giovanni," she said, "this is my brother, Jean-Claude."

Giovanni put his hand on her shoulder. "Hello," he said after a moment.

Jean-Claude nodded to him. He rose now. "I'm glad you're well, Katarina," he said. He paused, staring at her. "Is…is Mother…well?"

Katarina nodded, confused. "She's quite happy," she said. She now sincerely hoped that Jean-Claude would not ruin this happiness. His presence had certainly startled and unnerved her. It would only be worse for her mother.

He was looking at her now, watching her as though he could read her feelings. "I just want to ask her a few things," he said reassuringly. "I plan to leave Lyon at the end of the week."

He left, closing the door behind him. Giovanni sat beside her now, putting his arm around her shoulder and letting her lean against him. "Should I go tell your mother he's here?"

"Yes," she said.

"All right." He kissed her forehead. "I'll hurry back."


	7. Still 1505, Part II

STILL 1505…

"I need to speak with you right now."

She let Giovanni into the house, though she would have done this regardless of the rushed tone in his voice. "What's the matter?" her mind flew to Katarina and her grandchildren immediately. Katarina was pregnant again, and it was not an easy pregnancy; she was in constant pain and could barely move. Esmerelda hated seeing her this way. She hated knowing that her daughter was hurting and that there was nothing she could do to ease the pain she felt.

"It's about your son, Jean-Claude."

She had not thought of Jean-Claude in years, had practically forgotten him, and hearing his name shocked her. "What?"

"He's here," said Giovanni, "and he's looking for you."

Esmerelda felt her legs tremble and had to fight to stand. Giovanni took her by the hand, leading her to a chair, but she pulled away from him. She knew he meant well, but she could stand on her own, even if it felt difficult. "That's impossible," she said.

"He was asking Katarina about you," said Giovanni, "he told her he wanted to ask you some questions – "

There was a sharp knock at the door, and Esmerelda felt her blood run cold. She knew instinctively that her son was on the other side of the door, that she would open it and see him. Giovanni turned to the door. "I'll send him away," he said.

"No." She did not want to see Jean-Claude. She wanted nothing to do with him or the painful memories that his mere presence dredged up, but if she didn't see him now, she would have to see him later. He would be stubborn and persistent, just like his father, and he would force her to speak with him. She went to the door. "Thank you, Giovanni," she said, "but I…I need to see him."

She took a deep breath and opened the door. Jean-Claude was standing on the doorstep, and he seemed to recognize her as instantly as she recognized him. He was tall and thin, and wore a soldier's uniform; his armor bore the crest of the Captain of the Guard. They stared at each other. It felt like time had slowed, like the earth had come to a complete and total stop. The seconds ticked on, passing with infinite slowness.

"Mother…" Jean-Claude shattered the stillness, stepping towards her. She backed away from him, letting him into the house.

She glanced over at Giovanni. "You…you can leave now, Giovanni," she said.

He nodded and left, glancing back at Jean-Claude. Esmerelda watched him go; he was heading back to his own house, probably to sit with Katarina. Esmerelda closed the door, imagining Giovanni sitting with his arm wrapped around her daughter, holding her close and rubbing her swollen belly. She turned back to Jean-Claude, and the image faded from her mind.

Jean-Claude bore too strong a resemblance to his father, and this made Esmerelda's stomach knot painfully. Memories of Claude – memories she had successfully banished years ago – came tumbling back into her mind. It was as if a great dam had broken inside of her head. Memories of Claude's greedy kisses and rough hands, memories of lying trapped beneath him while he moaned her name over and over again, making her hate it…the memories made her shudder.

"What do you want?" she asked. She had to force herself to look at him. She'd never been able to look at Jean-Claude, not even when he was a child. Seeing him had always reminded her of what his father had done.

"I…I wanted to find you…" Jean-Claude stepped towards her, staring at her with the same blue eyes that his father had had. He was looking at her the same way he had when he was a child, when he'd been hurt or done something wrong and wanted her love and sympathy. She had always obliged, had always held him in her arms and stroked his hair and kissed his cheek, but she had never loved him. She couldn't bring herself to even think about touching him now.

"Why?"

"I – I need to know why you never came back for me," he said, "you left after Father died, and you never came back for me…"

"I knew you would be well cared for," she said. Telling him the truth would only hurt him. It would only stir even more painful memories, bringing them to the surface of her mind.

"They made me a blacksmith's apprentice," he said, "I had to live with him – "

"It's a good profession," she said, "and all apprentices have to live with their masters."

"He used to touch me! He used to give me wine and get me drunk and put his hands on me!" Jean-Claude sounded as though he would begin to cry, but he looked furious, his hands balled into fists as though he would strike her at any moment.

"Jean-Claude, I'm sorry."

"Why did you leave me?"

She sighed and motioned to the table and chairs. "Sit down," she said. He sat, and she took the seat across from him. "Jean-Claude, your father forced me to marry him against my will. He raped me – "

"That's a lie!" he slammed his fist against the table. "That's a lie! He fell in love with you and took you in and gave you a better life – "

"That's the lie he told you, Jean-Claude."

"He married you because he loved you!"

"He raped me, and you were the product of that rape," she said. "I couldn't come back for you. I couldn't look at you without remembering what he did to me. I couldn't love you as a son."

"You're lying!" he stood up, knocking the chair over. It hit the floor hard, and Esmerelda winced at the loud crack it made. Jean-Claude ignored it. "My father was a good man! He loved you, and you murdered him!"

She shook her head. "No, Jean-Claude. He forced me – "

He turned and stormed out of the house, slamming the door so hard it shook on its hinges. Esmerelda sat in the sudden silence. She took a deep breath. She desperately wanted to find Phoebus now.

~xXx~

Lies. She had told him nothing but lies. He shouldn't have expected the truth from her. She was a Gypsy, and Gypsies all lied. They didn't know what the truth was! Still, sitting across from his mother, listening to her tell him that she couldn't love him because his father had raped her, had been too much. Jean-Claude made his way into the city of Lyon, heading for the nearest tavern. He put a coin down on the counter and the bartender handed him a beer.

He drank it quickly and ordered another one. He did not drink often; it had been a vice his late father had been vehemently against. Still, the alcohol would wash away the memory of the conversation he'd had with his mother. He was aware that he could not spend too much of his money, that he would need to pay for his room for the rest of the week. He forced himself to stop after his third beer and left the tavern.

He wandered along the main road, unconsciously heading towards the inn where he was staying. He paused. The crowd of people who had gathered to watch the dancing Gypsy girl was beginning to disperse. The Gypsy girl was bowing to them, thanking them as she stooped to pick up the coins that had landed around the hat. Jean-Claude watched as René approached her. He found himself smiling as he watched René talk to her in hushed tones; René would undoubtedly bed the little whore in an alley later.

The Gypsy girl's eyes widened and she gasped, probably in shocked response to whatever lewd thing René had said to her. She slapped him. It was a quick, sudden movement, and it made Jean-Claude laugh. René was staring at the girl in surprise, rubbing his face where she'd struck him. He had never been struck by a woman before, or even rejected by one; René was handsome enough to charm his way into almost any woman's skirt. The Gypsy girl turned on her heel and started to storm away from him, clutching the hat filled with coins to her breast.

"Well, if you shake your hips like that, of course men will think you're a harlot!" René shouted after her.

She did not turn to reply to or even acknowledge him. Jean-Claude made his way over to René, still laughing at the whole thing. René, with his good looks and devastating charm, had been rejected by none other than a Gypsy harlot. "It isn't funny," said René.

"Oh, yes it is," said Jean-Claude.

"I can't help it if she dances like a whore," said René, still rubbing his face.

"I just can't believe she slapped you!"

"Well, should we arrest her for it?"

"Of course not," said Jean-Claude, "I should go give her a medal. And besides, we're the guards of Paris, not Lyon. We can't arrest anyone here."

"No, I suppose not," said René. He was staring in the direction where the Gypsy girl had stormed off. "I thought you'd be with Cosette right now."

"Tomorrow," said Jean-Claude. Tomorrow he would see Cosette and meet the rest of her family. Her father would host a grand dinner and would announce their engagement. Wedding plans would be finalized, and he would return to Paris with Cosette. They would be wed in Notre Dame. He would finally have the life he desperately wanted; it wouldn't matter that his mother had been a lying Gypsy whore. He would have a life with Cosette, and it would be wonderful.

~xXx~

"Hello, mother-of-Marie!"

She groaned inwardly. She did not want to have to deal with Dmitri right now. She already had Marie's questions to deal with. Marie was still frightened and confused about having to hide in the trunk. She kept asking about the soldiers, and Rosalie did not want to discuss them with her. She turned, looking at Dmitri. "Rosalie," she said, pointing to herself.

"Da, Rosalie! Marie is telling me that you had to have hide her from soldiers?"

"It doesn't concern you, Dmitri."

"Nyet, I am not understanding you," he said. "The soldiers are looking for man. They have letter to deliver. They are not wanting hurting Marie like you to say."

"I'm busy," she said, "please, go away."

He shook his head. "There are only two of soldiers," he said, holding up two fingers, "they come with letter and that is all. They are not wanting hurting Marie, and even if they are, there is hundred Gypsies to protect her!" he looked at her, "I am not letting anyone to hurt Marie, not even soldier. I am to keep her being safe."

Rosalie sighed. Dmitri was right; it had been stupid to worry about two soldiers. Marie was in no danger, and it was sweet and somewhat comforting to hear Dmitri offer to defend her. "Thank you," she said. "You're a good boy, Dmitri."

He smiled. His teeth were large and crooked. "Marie is good girl," he said, nodding to her, "and you are good lady for helping Anja with the baby."

Rosalie nodded. The baby was due to arrive the next day; she would spend the entire day with Anja, waiting for the baby. She hoped that it would be an easy birth, and suddenly wondered if she should bring Marie along with her. Marie couldn't really help in any way, but she could communicate with Dmitri better than anyone else. Rosalie would need help, and Marie and Dmitri could translate for her.

"Is Anja well?" she asked.

"Da, Anja is good," said Dmitri.

"I will see her tomorrow," said Rosalie.

"Da, tomorrow." Dmitri nodded at her, then turned and left, heading back towards where Marie was playing with the three children. She'd made flower crowns for them, and they wore them as they ran about in circles. Marie was chasing them, occasionally scooping one up into her arms. She watched as Dmitri entered the game, smiling at Marie as he took the child from her arms.

~xXx~

She was still furious over the soldier's remark when she finally reached her home. Theresa sat down outside the caravan and began to count the coins in her hat. No one had ever spoken to her that way before, and it angered her.

_"So, do you use an alley or do you have a room somewhere?"_

_"I'm afraid I don't understand – "_

_"Come now, my dear, there's no need to be so coy. Where do you take your customers?"_

She had struck him completely by accident; it had been as though her hand moved on its own. She didn't regret it, though. It served him right! She didn't care if he was a soldier or not, he had called her a harlot in front of everyone and he had no right to. He had insulted her and her dancing, and she would not allow that. His comrade had thought it funny; he'd laughed. Theresa wondered what he'd been laughing at, the fact that his comrade had called her a harlot in front of everyone, or the fact that she'd struck him after doing so. She supposed it was a combination of both. Well, the soldiers were both equally horrible.

She tossed the coins back into the hat. She was far too angry to count them, and she didn't have much anyway. She supposed that she could always go back into town later and dance some more, but she did not want to see either of the soldiers. The one she'd struck was probably angry with her. They would only insult her and drive her audience away. No, she would not go back into town, at least not today.


	8. Still 1505, Part III

STILL 1505…

He wasn't sure of what irritated him more, the fact that the Gypsy harlot had slapped him or the fact that Jean-Claude had found it so hilarious. He supposed that breaking Jean-Claude out of his cloud of misery had been a good thing; perhaps he should find the Gypsy girl and thank her. And it had been rude of him to assume that she was a whore. He remembered the way her eyes had changed with her emotions, flowing from startled to hurt to furious. He remembered the hurt in her eyes and wondered if anyone else had made the same mistake he had. How many times had she been propositioned because of her dancing? Perhaps she wasn't trying to be seductive. After all, she couldn't be older than seventeen; she was awfully young and probably naïve.

Part of him wanted to find her and apologize, though he couldn't say why. The girl was a Gypsy. She didn't deserve an apology or his respect for that matter. Of course she thought him a pervert, but why should it bother him? Why should a Gypsy's opinion even matter? He would go out later and find her, and he would not tell Jean-Claude, though it would undoubtedly send him into another fit of laughter.

René had never really seen Jean-Claude laugh, and it had been somewhat startling. Jean-Claude had a somber, serious attitude that somehow managed to carry over into his laughter. Everything about him was uptight and professional, even his laughter. It was somewhat disturbing, though René couldn't say why.

He left the Jean-Claude at the inn; he'd somehow convinced him that he needed to run an errand, and Jean-Claude had not offered to accompany him. He wandered through Lyon, noticing how the waning daylight created shadows in the city. The shadows reminded him of Paris, its long winding streets and hoards of people. Lyon was relatively crowded for a small town, but it was nothing compared to Paris. Nothing could compete with Paris, though.

He found the Gypsy on a side street. She was kneeling, picking up coins, probably from another performance. He watched her. She wore thin gold bracelets that clinked together, and there were tiny bells on the sash of her skirt. They jingled when she moved, creating music for her to dance to. She brushed her hair out of her face; she was really very pretty. She saw him now and glared, scrambling to her feet and clutching the coins.

"What do you want?" she demanded.

"I just wanted to apologize," said René. "For what I said earlier." She stared at him, her dark eyes wary and untrusting, and René suddenly found himself wanting to gain her trust. He wanted her to like him, to smile at him, though he couldn't fathom why. He held out his hands, showing her that he hadn't drawn his weapon, that he wouldn't hurt her, but she continued to look at him with anger and distrust in her eyes. "It was improper of me to proposition you like that," he said.

"Yes, it was," she said, her voice defiant.

"Well, I'm sorry," said René.

"What do you want?" she demanded again. She had not moved from the spot where she stood, but her dark eyes darted about; she was probably calculating escape routes, or possibly looking for other Gypsies to help her. René stepped back, away from her. He didn't want her to feel threatened. He had only wanted to apologize and for her to accept the apology.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Theresa." She still refused to move, holding the hat filled with coins to her chest, covering her cleavage. René had noticed her breasts while she had danced; it was impossible not to.

"I'm René," he said. "I…I'm new here – "

"I can see that," she said, "that uniform says you're from Paris."

"You can read?"

"Yes." She glared defiantly. "My father taught me."

All of the Gypsies that René had encountered had been illiterate. It seemed so strange to him that this one could read. He imagined her bent over a book, tucking an errant lock of black hair back behind her ear as she read, her dark eyes skimming over the words with ease. "Oh."

She continued to stare at him. "I need to leave," she said, "and you're in my way."

"I'm sorry." He stepped aside to let her pass. She watched him warily as she moved past him. The side street was narrow, and he could have reached out and touched her. Part of him wanted to touch her hand, to feel the warmth and softness of her skin. It would be stupid, though, and he refrained. After all, he'd just apologized for behaving inappropriately; grabbing her would only negate his apology. She was also the kind of girl who would scream bloody murder if a strange man touched her in the street. Her screams would be accompanied by kicking and scratching, and it would attract the attention of whoever was around.

He watched her leave, noting the way the bells on her sash jingled as her hips moved.

~xXx~

The sun was setting as they reached Lyon, and Heracles was more than relieved to be back. Life had felt somewhat hollow, though he couldn't figure out why. He lifted his weights before cheering crowds and smiled at them, but he secretly wished that Rosalie was part of the crowd, that she was clapping for him. He pitched the tents and slept alone in his caravan, wishing that she was lying in the darkness beside him. Thinking about her, knowing that she didn't love or want him, only made him depressed, but he found that every little thing reminded him of her.

He knew that the others had noticed his somber mood; they whispered about it behind his back. Frieda asked him about it point-blank, and her candidness was refreshing, but he couldn't bring himself to tell her what he felt. Frieda was a wonderful woman, and he loved her like a sister and knew he could tell her anything. He supposed that talking about his feelings for Rosalie would taint them, make them less important. Besides, Frieda would only tell him to move on, that there were plenty of fish in the sea. This was true; he'd had dozens of women, most of them prettier than Rosalie. Still, he found that he didn't want them. He wanted her.

They would make camp with the Gypsies and set up the tents in the unused fields. He would see Rosalie, and they would laugh and talk like old friends. She would listen as he told her of his travels, and that would be all. Heracles supposed that it didn't matter much; as long as he could still see her and talk to her, he'd be content. It was better than the aspect of never seeing her again.

Marie, as usual, was the first one to see the approaching circus caravans, and by the time they reached Lyon, a small welcoming party had assembled. Food was prepared and wine consumed, and eventually Dierk reached for his fiddle and everyone began to dance. Heracles sat beside Rosalie, wishing that she would dance with him.

"I really don't dance," she had once told him. He found this strange, because it seemed to him that all Gypsy women danced. Even Marie danced, and she couldn't hear the music. She twirled and clapped her hands, mimicking the people around her.

She was dancing with a boy, one of the Russian Gypsies who'd arrived in the camp a few months ago. The boy seemed as clueless and clumsy as she did; they made a perfect dancing pair, Heracles thought.

"I've missed you," he said to Rosalie. She smiled at him. The music was unbearably loud, and he slid closer to her. He could smell the wine on her breath and now noticed the sleepy look in her eyes that came with drunkenness. "I don't have anyone to talk to on the road."

"That's sweet of you to say," she said. Her speech was thick and slurred. He had never seen her drunk before, and it bothered him. She looked down at the wine bottle in her hands and took another swig. It was nearly empty. Had she consumed the entire thing? She turned her gaze back to the dancing crowd now, watching Marie. "I worry about her," she said.

"Marie?" He watched Marie. She looked so happy, laughing as the Russian boy twirled her in his arms. "She looks happy."

"It's the boy," said Rosalie.

"Oh, he's harmless," said Heracles. "And Marie's a smart girl."

"She's naïve about men. She doesn't know…" Rosalie's voice trailed off, and she looked down at the bottle again. She tilted her head back as she drank, finishing the wine. She let the bottle fall; it rolled across the grass.

"Rosalie," he said, putting an arm around her. He did this tentatively, hesitating, but Rosalie did not pull away from him. "You've had too much to drink." He stood up, attempting to pull her to her feet, but she refused to rise up to meet him. "Come on, let's get you home."

He lifted her now, and she groaned, resting her head against his shoulder. He carried her away from the fire and the dancing crowd, back towards her shack. She felt heavy, though no heavier than he'd expected. He was used to lifting objects much, much heavier; Rosalie was nothing compared to the weights he used in his act. It was pitch-black inside of Rosalie's home, and he moved through the darkness slowly until he reached the bed. He set Rosalie down then turned and groped for a candle and some matches.

He found a lamp on the table and lit it. Rosalie had fallen asleep in his arms. She lay there on the bed, her chest rising and falling with the rhythm of her breath. Heracles went to her, lifting her again to pull the blankets back. He placed her against the sheets and gently pulled the blankets over her. She groaned in her sleep, frowning at something in her dreams. He watched her, thinking about the empty wine bottle.

Heracles knew that Rosalie had a relatively high tolerance for alcohol. She could out-drink most of the men that she knew, but then again, most of those men weren't heavy drinkers. She must have consumed more than the one wine bottle to have passed out, and this disturbed Heracles. She obviously wasn't celebrating the circus' return. It now seemed likely that she'd started drinking before he'd even arrived.

She groaned in her sleep again, moving beneath the blankets. She squirmed, as though in some state of physical discomfort. "Stop," she mumbled, "stop…"

"Rosalie, wake up." He touched her shoulder, gently shaking her. "You're dreaming."

"Stop it…please…"

"Rosalie, wake up!"

Her eyes flew open and she jerked backwards, away from him. She stared at him, her brown eyes struggling to focus. She was panting as though she'd been running. "Heracles?"

"You were having a nightmare."

She sat up slowly, rubbing her forehead. "I have them often."

He wondered if she'd been dreaming about the rape. It had happened nearly ten years ago, but he doubted that any woman could forget such an event. He did not know the full details of the attack, only that there had been more than one man and that they were all dead. He was fairly certain he'd heard that Rosalie had killed one of them. Heracles suddenly realized that his hand was still resting on Rosalie's shoulder, that he hadn't shaken him off. She was staring down at her hands, her long dark hair hiding her face.

"I…I can't make them stop…"

He slid closer to her, sitting on the edge of the bed and brushing her hair aside. She glanced at him without turning her head, but did not push him away. "I would if I could," he said.

"There were four of them," she said. Her voice sounded thin, as if she was close to tears. "They tied me up, and they took turns raping me."

He suddenly found himself wishing that the men weren't dead, that he could find them and kill them. He would rip them apart with his bare hands, ignoring their screams. He would slaughter them, rendering their corpses unidentifiable. The ground would be forever stained with their blood, and their mangled bodies would be left for the rats and other scavengers.

"I didn't scream," continued Rosalie, "and I didn't cry. They wanted me to, but I didn't." He didn't know what to say to her, and this further infuriated him. He should be able to say something, anything, to comfort her. "I wasn't afraid of what they would do to me. I was afraid for Pierre and Marie. If they had caught them…" her voice trailed off, and the tears began to well up in her eyes. "I was so afraid they'd kill my babies."

She let him hold her while she cried, pressing her face into his shoulder to muffle her own sobs. He had wanted to hold her for so long, but he couldn't bear to see her in such pain. He wished that he could take it away from her, that he could turn back the hands of time and stop it from happening. He wished that her could reach into her heart and remove all of her pain; he would gladly place it within his own heart if it meant her happiness.

"I thought it would all end after they died," she said, "but it won't. Even in death they continue to hurt me…"

"I wish I could take away your pain," he said, "I wish I could take it from you. I'd do anything to make you happy again." She looked up at him. "I'd take your place if I could."

She reached up to wipe her eyes with her hand. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. It was the same one he'd let her use nine years ago when he'd first met her, when she'd started to cry from the relief that came with knowing her children were safe. She took it and wiped her eyes; he wondered if she recognized it. "You would?"

"Yes." He kissed her forehead. "I would do anything for you."

"I…" she was cut off by the sound of the door opening. Heracles looked and saw Marie standing in the doorway, her eyes wide with surprise. She shook her head, waving her hand as if to say she was sorry for intruding, then turned and left, closing the door behind her. "Oh," said Rosalie, "I really should talk to her."

She started to get up, her limbs moving slowly. It occurred to Heracles that she was probably still too drunk to stand properly. "I will," he said, "you need to get some sleep."

"Will you come back?"

"If you want me to."

She nodded. "Please."

"All right," he said. "I'll be right back."

He left, looking around for Marie. She was a few paces away from the shack, sitting her with her back to it, staring up at the sky. He went and sat down beside her. She looked at him. Over the years, Heracles had learned to communicate with Marie on a very basic level. He couldn't carry on an elaborate conversation with her like her mother and brother could, but he could understand her when she conveyed certain things. She was moving her hands, apologizing for interrupting him and her mother; she looked thoroughly uncomfortable.

"Marie," he said, "nothing improper happened between me and your mother. She had too much to drink at the party, and she fell asleep and had a nightmare."

Marie nodded, making more hand motions. Her mother had been having a lot of nightmares, and she wouldn't discuss them with anyone. It had occurred to Heracles that Marie and Pierre did not know what had happened to their mother. Rosalie and the others had probably kept it a secret; she would not want him to tell Marie now.

"I'm going to stay with her tonight," said Heracles, "to make sure she doesn't have any more nightmares." Marie only looked at him. "Nothing improper will happen, you understand?" She nodded, then reluctantly followed him back to the little shack. Rosalie was fast asleep when they arrived, and Marie sighed. She went to her mother, leaning over and kissing her cheek. She arranged the blankets, smoothing them over Rosalie's shoulders. It was a bizarre reversal of the mother-child roles, and Heracles felt strange watching it. Marie went to her own bed, a little cot in the corner, and lay down, pulling the blankets over her.

Heracles quietly pulled a chair up to Rosalie's bed and sat down. He leaned back, watching as she slept, wishing he could do more to chase the nightmares away.

~xXx~

He did not want to leave Katarina, but the more he thought about it, the less of a choice he had. If his grandmother wanted to meet him, he would go to her. Her letter implied that she was relatively well-off; perhaps she'd be willing to loan him some money. One baby was expensive as it was. If Katarina bore twins, it would cost twice as much to feed and clothe them. It was his job to provide for his family, even if it meant leaving them for a time.

"I'll come with you," said Katarina. "Wait until I've had the baby, and we'll all go to Paris."

Giovanni shook his head. It was impossible for Katarina to travel in her current condition, and traveling with two babies, plus Dante and Musetta, would be difficult. "I'll be back as soon as I can," he said, kissing her forehead.

Katarina sighed. "Would you at least wait until I've had the baby?"

"I don't think I can." His grandmother had hinted at an illness that was consuming her; she might not be long for this world. It would do no good for him to wait and arrive too late. Katarina and the babies would still be here in Lyon when he returned. He would see them then. "My grandmother's an old woman," he said, "in her letter, she said she was sick. I need to go as soon as I can."

Katarina took his hand, placing it on her stomach. He felt the baby (or, perhaps, babies) move within her. He would miss her so much. He remembered the two of them in Paris, the way they had raced through the streets, Katarina constantly outrunning him. He remembered her dressed as a boy, smiling shyly at him. He remembered his own desperate feelings, his desire to kiss her overwhelming and terrifying; he had finally kissed her in Lyon, not Paris. He remembered the rush of pleasure and relief, the way the jumble of feelings had flowed through him and into her. He remembered gripping her hands, pulling her close to him, the way she had intertwined their fingers, how she'd smiled even as he kissed her.

He touched her face with his free hand, and she reached up to hold it there. "I'm going to miss you," she said.

"I'll be back before you even know I'm gone."

~xXx~

It surprised her that the soldier had sought her out and apologized to her. Theresa did not know what to make of it and wondered if she should tell her father. She hadn't mentioned the earlier incident – the soldier propositioning her, then calling her a harlot when she'd rejected him – to anyone. _Well, if you shake your hips like that, of course men will think you're a harlot!_ She wondered if what he'd said was true; did men think she was a harlot because of the way she danced? If she told anyone, would they blame her? Would her father look at her and shake his head and tell her what he'd been telling her for years, that men looked at her when she danced and thought lustful thoughts?

If she was indeed pretty, and she had no grand delusions about her appearance, then she supposed that her father would come to that conclusion. She hated to think that he would think that of her. Perhaps she should not have worn the yellow dress. It accentuated her breasts. She should have known better than to wear something that would draw attention to her like that, but then again, should she go about dressed like a nun? If men saw her and thought vile, lustful thoughts, was it because she had enticed them or because they couldn't control themselves? Whose fault was it?

The soldier had been quite handsome. She supposed that she could have liked him if he hadn't been so rude to her earlier. He'd seemed very sincere in his apology; perhaps if she returned to the main street where she usually danced, he would not cause a scene again. No, she would not go out tomorrow and dance. She had managed to make a decent amount of money, plus her parents worked; surely they could manage without her additional income for one day.

Perhaps he'd only thought she was a prostitute because he'd been looking for one. It was common knowledge that the majority of men serviced by prostitutes were soldiers or sailors. He'd probably been thinking lustful thoughts before he'd even laid eyes on her; she'd only inflamed his lust, though quite by accident. It was strange to know that someone had looked at her that way, that he had wanted her. Theresa wasn't sure if she felt angry or flattered. Being flattered by a lewd remark sickened her. The idea that he wanted to pull her into an alley and have his way with her was disgusting, regardless of how handsome this soldier was.

The soldier probably wouldn't even stay in Lyon for that long. Soldiers never stayed anywhere for very long. They were constantly marching off to war. He would leave in a few days, and Theresa would probably never see him again. Once he was gone, she could dance as much as she wanted without having to worry about his vicious words or lustful gaze.


	9. Still 1505, Part IV

STILL 1505…

Giovanni was going to Paris, and she found herself wishing she could go with him. Though Theresa had been born in Paris, her memories of the city were vague. She wondered if it had changed at all. Was the beautiful Notre Dame cathedral still standing? Did the Seine still sparkle in the sunlight? She'd begged Giovanni to take her, but he'd shrugged and looked uncomfortable.

"Ask your father," he'd said, "if you get his consent, I'll bring you with me."

Theresa raced to find her father now, darting through the crowd around the circus tents. Hans's circus had arrived a few hours ago, and the tents were already assembled. Everyone was laughing and chattering, having a good time. The circus would draw a big crowd; there was plenty of money to be made. Right now, though, the circus and its promise of audiences and coins barely mattered. The circus came through Lyon frequently. An opportunity to go to Paris did not.

"Papa! Giovanni's going to Paris!"

"I know," he said. "He's received a letter from his grandmother."

"Can I go with him?"

Her father looked at her. "What?"

"Please, Papa, I'd like to go with him. I can barely remember Paris, and I'd love to go back – "

Her father beckoned to her, and she sat down beside him. "What did Giovanni say?"

"He said he'd bring me if I got your consent."

Her father nodded, stroking his beard. "Go and fetch him, will you?"

Theresa sprang to her feet and tore off through the crowd, weaving through the mass of people with ease. Giovanni was talking with Heracles, Katarina by his side. Heracles had both Dante and Musetta balanced on each shoulder. They giggled, clinging to him; he talked and moved as though they weren't even there. "And just think," he said to Katarina, "you're about to bring more little tomboys into the world! When will you name one Carlo?"

Katarina laughed, rubbing her belly. "Well, perhaps if this one's a boy…"

"Giovanni – " Theresa felt guilty for interrupting, but her father's decision seemed to rest entirely on Giovanni now, " – my father needs to see you."

"Is that little Theresa?" Heracles turned to her now, "my, how you've grown! Come give your old uncle Heracles a hug!"

She laughed as he embraced her, lifting her up off the ground. He was strong enough to lift her and her two younger cousins. "You should balance children as part of your act," said Katarina.

"Oh, they'd all run away to join the circus," said Heracles, putting Theresa back down. He turned to Dante, still perched on his shoulder. "What about you, Dante? Will you join the circus when you get big?"

Dante nodded. "Me too!" squealed Musetta.

"Come on, Giovanni, my father's waiting for you," said Theresa impatiently,

"All right, all right."

Giovanni followed her through the crowd. He sat down beside her father, and Theresa turned to let them have their privacy. "Theresa," called her father, "you should be included in this discussion."

She sat down, puzzled. It had always seemed to her that her parents never included her in their discussions about her and her siblings. These conversations were always held in private, behind closed doors, after sunset. It was strange and somewhat thrilling to be part of the discussion.

"Theresa says that you will let her accompany you to Paris."

"Yes, Uncle. If I have she has your consent." Her father was quiet. "She was born in Paris, you know," continued Giovanni, "but she can't remember it. I'll only be there for a few days, anyway."

Her father nodded. "Paris is a beautiful city," he said, "and Theresa may go with you." Something in his voice told her not to rejoice just yet. There was something very serious in his tone. "Paris can be a dangerous place for a woman, though. I want you to protect her."

"Of course, Uncle."

"And Theresa," he turned and looked at her, "promise me that you will not dance in Paris."

"I promise." It seemed such a strange thing to promise. She would only be there for a few days anyway; she did not intend to spend her time dancing. She wanted to explore the city, to see all the sights and relive what few memories she had of it.

"This is serious, Theresa," he said. "A long time ago, before I'd even met your mother, a very good friend of mine got into trouble for her dancing."

"What happened?" Could dancing be illegal in Paris? It seemed like such a silly thing to outlaw.

"There was a man who saw her dance," said her father. He spoke slowly, choosing the words carefully. "He was a very powerful man, and when he saw her, he became overcome with lust." Theresa did not like the way the story was headed. It was beginning to remind her of the soldier who'd propositioned her earlier. Perhaps she shouldn't go to Paris after all. "He forced her to marry him, and held her prisoner for thirteen years. She was only able to escape him after he died."

The story sounded to strange and terrifying to be true, but she knew that her father wouldn't lie about such a thing. He put his arm around her. "I don't want anything like that to happen to you," he said. "I want you to promise me you won't dance."

"I promise."

"I'll keep her safe, Uncle. I swear it."

Her father smiled at Giovanni now. "I know you will," he said.

~xXx~

She was more than surprised to see Heracles when she woke up. She sat up, puzzled, staring at him. He was sitting in a chair beside her bed, his arms folded across his chest, asleep. Rosalie rubbed her eyes, trying to piece together bits and pieces of the previous night. She remembered circus and the bonfire, but it all grew blurry after that. She looked around. Marie was standing at the table, laying out plates with food.

Rosalie got up and approached her. "Why is Heracles here?" she whispered.

Marie stared at her. She moved her hands slowly, but still didn't make any sense; Heracles had come over to chase something away?

Rosalie shook her head. "I don't understand."

Marie pointed at her now, making the motions that meant 'bad' and 'sleep.' The nightmare did not spill back into Rosalie's mind right away. She looked over at Heracles. Had she asked him to sit with her to prevent her from having nightmares? Had she woken up screaming, and had he comforted her? She groaned; she had a dim, strange memory of Heracles stroking her hair.

She did not sit down at the table, but ate her breakfast standing up. She had work to do, and she had probably overslept. The Russian woman, Anja, was due to have her baby today. Rosalie would go and sit with her until it was time, then she would help her deliver the baby. She finished her breakfast and washed her face in the basin of water that Marie had provided. The cold water stung her face, but she welcomed it. She headed for the door; Marie reached out and grabbed her arm, pointing to Heracles.

"The Russian woman is supposed to have her baby today," said Rosalie, "I have to go and help her. I'll see Heracles when I get back."

Marie sighed and nodded, but Rosalie could see the disapproval and worry in her face. She left. She could feel Marie's eyes on her even after she had shut the door. She walked to the Russian Gypsies' camp, pausing and trying to remember which caravan Anja had been in.

"Rosalie mother-of-Marie!" Dmitri was rushing over to her, "I am glad to have found you. Anja is saying that baby is hurting."

"Where is she?"

"Come, I take you."

She let him grab her hand and lead her to the proper caravan. This time it was not crowded. Anja was lying on the bed, groaning and staring up at the ceiling. Rosalie went to her, pulling the blankets back. The baby would be coming soon, perhaps in an hour, and she would need hot water and towels. She turned to Dmitri. "I need hot water and towels." He blinked, staring dumbly at her. "Go and fetch hot water and towels," she said, stretching the words out.

"What is 'towels'?"

Anja let out a cry of pain. "Go ask Marie, she'll help you," said Rosalie, "but you have to hurry."

"Da, da, I will to hurry." Dmitri fled.

Rosalie sat by Anja now, taking hold of her hand. "Almost," she said, aware that Anja probably couldn't understand her. "You need to wait a little longer." Anja moaned, saying something in Russian. Rosalie shook her head. "I don't understand you." Anja pointed to her belly, her face full of pain. Rosalie moved down towards her feet, gently pushing her legs open to examine her. The baby seemed to be coming much faster than she'd thought.

"You have to push," she said. She couldn't wait for Dmitri to return with the water or towels. The baby was coming. She knew that Anja didn't understand her, but she could tell that she was pushing nonetheless. Rosalie reached for the baby, unaware of the door behind her opening or Dmitri coming into the room.

She focused on the baby, watching as it slowly slid out of Anja. She managed to grab the baby, pulling on it, helping Anja as best she could. She ignored Anja's cries of pain; the baby was wailing now, and it would need to be washed and bundled. Rosalie cut the cord and turned, startled to find Dmitri standing behind her. He was holding a bucket and a flimsy white towel. His eyes were wide with shock; Rosalie would have found his expression funny in a different circumstance. She took the bucket from him wordlessly and bathed the screaming baby, gently wrapping it in the towel. She shoved the baby into Dmitri's arms and turned back to Anja.

She cleaned up the afterbirth quickly, then helped Anja sit up. She wiped the sweat from Anja's face, smiling at her to assure her that the birth had gone well. Dmitri stepped forward now, handing the baby to Anja. He was saying something to her in Russian, and she nodded and smiled at him as she took the baby in her arms. She looked down at the baby, speaking to it in Russian and kissing its cheeks.

"Thank you," said Dmitri, "for to helping with the baby." He stared at her. "I am to go get Piotr now, to tell to him he has a son."

"Yes," said Rosalie. "Go and tell him." She sat down beside Anja, watching as Dmitri left. She would take her bucket and leave once he returned with Anja's husband. She thought about Heracles now; he was undoubtedly awake and wondering where she was. Part of her did not want to see or talk to him. He probably pitied her, and she did not want pity from anyone. He probably saw her as a weeping, damaged woman, and she wondered if she was one.

Were those soldiers watching her from Hell, cackling because they'd succeeded in ruining her life? They'd invaded her dreams, making it impossible for her to sleep without first drinking herself stupid. Lately the dreams had grown worse; sometimes she wasn't the one being raped. Sometimes it was Marie, and this frightened her more than anything. She remembered lying on the ground, trying to ignore the man who was violating her, staring at the woods across the road and desperately praying for Pierre and Marie. Praying they would stay safe, praying they wouldn't be found, praying they'd never know how she was suffering. It seemed that God had answered her prayers, but were the nightmares some sort of horrible price to pay for it? Now she feared for Marie, and prayed that she'd never know the seemingly unending pain that came with rape.

She was shaken from her thoughts when Dmitri came into the caravan. He was leading another man – a man who was unmistakably his older brother – and speaking to him in Russian, pointing excitedly at Anja and Rosalie. The man approached her, and she stood up, unaware that her hands were shaking. He smiled at her, bowing his head to her. "Thank you," he said slowly, "for helping Anja with the baby."

"It's nothing – "

He shoved a large burlap sack into her arms, saying something in Russian. "He say you are to have potatoes," said Dmitri. "There is not much for money." Piotr handed her a few silver coins.

"Thank you." She slipped the coins into her pocket and shifted the sack of potatoes in her arms. "Thank you very much."

"I will to come for you if there is problem?" asked Dmitri.

"Yes." She nodded.

"Da, good. Thank you again, Rosalie."

~xXx~

The house reminded him of his father. It was almost exactly like the home he had grown up in as a child, and it made him hate his mother and sister even more. They had destroyed his life, but he was more than determined to regain it. It didn't matter what became of them. They could live the rest of their lives in filth and sin and poverty. Katarina could keep producing little Gypsy children who'd only grow up to become liars and thieves. Jean-Claude didn't care. They wanted nothing to do with him, and he was relieved. They were far too proud to come to him asking for money or favors, and he would not have to deal with the embarrassment of turning them away. Cosette and her parents would never know about his mother and sister.

He sat beside Cosette in the dining room of her grandparents' house, listening politely as they talked. Cosette's father, it seemed, had risen up from poverty to gain wealth, power, and respect. They were quite pleased that Jean-Claude had succeeded in doing the same, and they seemed to approve of him. There was not much to disapprove of, at least not in Jean-Claude's mind. He was honest and hard-working, his father had had an immaculate reputation, and he loved their Cosette with all his heart. His love alone should prove him worthy of her!

"Jean-Claude," Cosette's father, who had been silent during most of the dinner, turned and spoke to him now.

"Yes, sir?"

"I have known you for four years," he said. "During that time, you have risen from a mere soldier in the King's army to the Captain of the Guard." Cosette's grandparents nodded with approval. "You have been polite and respectful towards both my daughter and myself, and Cosette has spoken fondly of you." Jean-Claude glanced quickly at Cosette now. She was watching her father, her blue eyes wide with anticipation. "And I have decided that you may have my daughter's hand in marriage."

For a moment, Jean-Claude was too stunned to speak. Cosette gasped with delight, bringing one small, pale hand up to her cheek. "Thank you, sir," said Jean-Claude finally, "I swear, I won't disappoint you."

Cosette's father laughed. "It's not me you have worry about disappointing," he said, "it's my Cosette."

Cosette blushed, her pale cheeks growing pink. "He won't father." She looked over at him now, smiling behind her hand, "I know he won't."

The dinner was elegant, and Jean-Claude found that he enjoyed it even more now that Cosette was his bride-to-be. Every so often she would glance over at him. Her shy little looks made him love her even more, made him long for their wedding day. He imagined himself standing before her at the altar, lifting the veil from her face, staring into those beautiful blue eyes as he declared his love for her.

He had brought her a gift just for this occasion. He'd sold most of his mother's old jewelry; the smaller pieces, the ones that didn't matter quite as much to him. He had, however, saved a gold necklace just for Cosette. The pendant was a small gold disk covered with shining white pearls. It would look so beautiful around Cosette's slender neck.

He walked beside Cosette now, wishing he could hold her hand as they watched the sun set together. He knew full well that her father was watching them from the house, though, and he would have to be content to stand at her side. Her grandparents had a lovely garden, filled with sweet-smelling flowers. The flowers seemed brighter and more vibrant near Cosette's pale skin, but their color only made her more beautiful.

"I have a gift for you," he said.

"Jean-Claude, you shouldn't have!"

He was smiling as he handed her the little black box containing his mother's necklace. She opened it, gasping at the beauty of the necklace. "Oh, Jean-Claude," she whispered, still staring into the box, "it's too much!"

"Nonsense," he said. He took it out of the box, holding it up to the waning sunlight. It seemed to sparkle in the light from the setting sun. "It belonged to my mother." She turned away from him, motioning for him to place it around her neck. He glanced back at the house. He knew that her father was watching them, but he couldn't see the old man from the windows, and this bothered him. He placed the necklace around Cosette's throat, trying not to touch her as he did so. His fingertips brushed against the nape of her neck, and he had to fight the urge to lean in and kiss her. He finally succeeded in working the clasps, and Cosette turned to him.

The necklace seemed to glow against her deep blue dress. She looked so beautiful. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you so much."

"She would have wanted you to have it." Jean-Claude had lied about his mother, and had once felt ashamed for doing so. Now knowing that she had willingly abandoned him, that she didn't love him or want anything to do with him, he felt no guilt, and let the lie flow more freely. He had told Cosette that his mother had died in childbirth. There was nothing he could say about his father's death; it was common knowledge that he'd been robbed and murdered by Gypsies.

"I'm so happy," said Cosette. She clasped her hands in front of her; it was as if she wanted to reach out and take his hand but was restraining herself.

"As am I," he said, "and I'll be even happier after I've married you."


	10. Still 1505, Part V

STILL 1505…

Heracles did not have time to wait around for Rosalie to return. Marie had explained that she'd gone out to help a woman deliver a baby; she'd be gone for several hours, if not all day. Heracles wanted to wait more than anything, but Hans would be looking for him to help with the tents. The circus would open tomorrow and everything needed to be ready. Heracles was helping Quasimodo and the others with the Freak Tent, moving numbly and ignoring the chattering conversations that filled the air.

"You've been sulking more than usual," said Quasimodo. "What's the matter?"

"It's nothing."

"You didn't come back last night." Quasimodo looked at him. "Did you and Rosalie have a fight?"

"What does Rosalie have to do with any of this?"

"Well, you left the bonfire with her. You were carrying her."

"She was drunk," said Heracles, sounding more defensive than he'd intended. "I brought her home and stayed with her."

"So why are you sulking?"

Heracles sighed. "She was gone when I woke up. I…I wanted to talk to her, but she just left."

"Hm. Did you ask Marie where she went?"

"She had to help a woman deliver a baby."

"Well, that sort of thing takes all day, you know that! She's probably busy with the baby."

"I know, I know."

"And she'll probably come and find you once she's done," said Quasimodo. "She's probably thinking about you right now, wishing that she could talk to you."

"I doubt that."

"Come on, the others can handle the tent. Let's go and wait for her."

Heracles sighed, but he followed Quasimodo towards Rosalie's shack. Perhaps she would be there. Perhaps she was waiting for him to return. Perhaps she wanted to talk to him about the previous night. Heracles wanted to talk to her more than anything. He wasn't even sure what exactly he wanted to say to her, but he wanted to see her, to make sure she was all right.

~xXx~

"Are you certain you want to come to Paris?"

Theresa nodded. "Yes," she said.

"Your father didn't frighten you?"

"No. Besides, we'll only be there for a few days. I have better things to do than dance."

She was relieved when Giovanni laughed. They had one horse and would have to take turns riding it. Giovanni had insisted that she have the first turn even though she felt like walking. She didn't mind, though. The sun was shining, and the fields on either side of the road looked beautiful. They would eventually turn into thick forests; Theresa had dim memories of traveling from Paris to Lyon. She mostly remembered how unpleasant the trip had been. She'd been cooped up inside of the caravan with Martine and Jacques-Clopin.

"What's the first thing we'll do when we get to Paris?" she asked.

"Find a place to stay," replied Giovanni.

"That's no fun!"

"We'll have plenty of time for fun later," he said. "I suppose I'll bring you to Notre Dame first."

She sighed. "Going to church won't be fun!"

"Well, you've never been inside, have you?"

"No."

"It's really quite lovely. You should at least see the inside of it. And besides, who said we'd be staying for mass?" He smiled up at her.

"What do you think your grandmother is like?"

Giovanni shrugged. "I don't really know," he said, "I'm a little nervous about meeting her."

"Why? She's your grandmother!"

"Yes, but I've never even seen her. I didn't even know she was alive until I got the letter."

"Well, if she sent you a letter asking you to come see her, then it must mean she loves you."

Giovanni patted her hand. "I suppose it does."

~xXx~

She did not go home right away. Heracles would probably be there waiting for her, and she wasn't sure if she wanted to see him or not. She would have to eventually; it would be inevitable. But she couldn't remember much of the previous night, and this bothered her a great deal. If she told Heracles that she couldn't remember it, he would think she was a drunkard; she supposed that she was one, and she didn't like the idea at all.

Rosalie found herself sitting with Esmerelda instead, drinking tea and talking about silly, inane things. She liked Esmerelda, thought of her as a sister, and was more than thrilled that she'd finally escaped Judge Claude Frollo. Still, Esmerelda seemed to sense that something was wrong, and Rosalie would not be able to hide it from her forever.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"I don't think so," replied Rosalie. "I…I had too much to drink last night, and I can't remember anything."

"Well, what happened when you woke up?"

"I was at home in my bed…but Heracles was there."

Esmerelda laughed. "It's too bad you can't remember it! He's so strong and handsome – "

"No, it wasn't like that," said Rosalie, "he was asleep in a chair beside my bed."

"Oh. Well, did he tell you what happened?"

"No. I had to leave before he woke up. Anja – that Russian woman who Dmitri knows – "

"Which one is Dmitri again?"

"The one who's been hanging around Marie."

"Ah."

"Anyway, she had her baby today, so I was with her all day. I haven't seen Heracles at all."

"Well, he's probably still at your home, waiting for you." Esmerelda stared at her, stirring her tea. "Why don't you want to see him?"

"Marie told me why he was in my house," said Rosalie. "She said I asked him to stay because I was having a nightmare. She says I asked him to chase it away. I…the nightmares have only gotten worse."

Esmerelda nodded, reaching out and taking hold of her hand. "I know," she said. Rosalie gripped her hand. "But they won't go away if you don't talk about them."

Rosalie swallowed. She had never talked about the nightmares. She had kept them pressed inside of her for so long, desperately trying to forget them. They would seem more real if she talked about them. She feared that they would spread if she talked about them, that they would taint the air and infect the people she loved. "I can't."

"Yes you can. Here, you tell one nightmare, and I'll tell one."

"Oh…I…I really can't…"

Esmerelda stared at her. "They won't go away if you keep them inside."

Rosalie nodded and closed her eyes. She would discuss the nightmares, but she couldn't bring herself to look at Esmerelda while she did so. "It happens all over again," she said, "but in the dream, it isn't happening to me. It's happening to Marie…and it's worse…" Esmerelda was silent, and Rosalie took a deep breath, opening her eyes to look at her while she continued. "She's screaming and I can't help her. They're raping her and making me watch."

She was not sure if she felt better or not for telling the dream. She felt as though she would begin to cry at any moment. "When Claude married me, he…he made me dance for him," said Esmerelda. "He would watch as I danced, then he would rip my clothes off and rape me. Sometimes I still dream about it. I dream that he's watching me dance, coming closer and closer to me, and there's nothing I can do to stop him."

Hearing Esmerelda refer to him by his first name startled Rosalie. Esmerelda was looking at her, her green eyes perfectly dry. How could she talk about such a horrible dream without crying? Holding back her own tears had become painful, but Rosalie continued to do it anyway. "One of them threw some coins at me," said Rosalie, "he said it wasn't rape if he paid me. The others laughed. They laughed at me while they did it. I can still hear them sometimes."

"Claude used to say my name. Over and over again while he raped me. He would whisper it into my ear. I grew to hate my name as much as I hated him. I won't even let Phoebus say my name when we make love."

It was like exchanging poisons. It was bitter and horrible and painful, but she continued to do it. "I started bleeding," she said, "they laughed at that, too. One of them said, 'she bleeds just like a virgin.' They hit me and pulled my hair. They wanted me to scream, but I didn't."

"That was brave."

Rosalie shook her head. "I knew that if I screamed Pierre would come. They would kill him."

"There's a girl I used to have nightmares about," said Esmerelda. "After Claude arrested us, he had the guards bring a girl into the room. She was thirteen, I think. He told his men that they could rape her, and he just watched while they started tearing her clothes off. She was crying and screaming, and he just watched, like he didn't even care. I begged him to make them stop, and he said I had to marry him, so I did. I agreed to marry him and he made the guards stop, and I never saw that girl again, but I used to dream about her."

"Cassandra."

"What?"

"The girl in your dream, it's Cassandra."

"Clopin's wife?" Esmerelda looked puzzled. "But, neither of them have ever mentioned it…"

Rosalie swallowed, wishing that she hadn't spoken up. "I probably shouldn't have told you – "

Esmerelda shook her head. "It's fine. I guess I'm glad she's all right." She smiled and looked over at Rosalie. "I'm here for you, Rosalie. We're all here for you."

"Thank you."

The urge to cry had subsided somewhat, and the lump in her throat didn't hurt quite so much. She felt hollow, as though something had been drained from her. She wasn't sure if she felt better or not. She supposed that discussing her nightmares should have brought her some relief. She didn't know if she felt it or not, though. Perhaps it would come to her later. Perhaps she'd sleep easily tonight.

~xXx~

"I can't bear to be apart from you."

"Nor I from you," he said, "but we'll be married on Sunday, and then we shall never be parted again."

Cosette smiled at him. He wished that he could kiss her; her father, of course, was standing there beside her. Jean-Claude smiled and shook the old man's hand before mounting his horse. René was already on his horse, waiting patiently. René had bought him several drinks the night before, and Jean-Claude now hoped that he didn't smell of beer. René had had much more to drink that he, but René would not be the one marrying Cosette, and her father didn't even notice him.

"Goodbye, my love," said Jean-Claude, smiling at Cosette as he dug his heels into the horse's flanks. She waved, calling out her goodbyes as he rode away.

"You will have to tell me how the wedding night is," said René once they were a mile or so away from Lyon. "I'm going to want all the sordid details."

Jean-Claude rolled his eyes. "I'll do nothing of the sort and you know it," he said.

René laughed. "Well, you've at least thought about it, haven't you?"

"Of course not!"

"Ha! I know a lie when I hear one!" René was right, and Jean-Claude felt himself blushing. "I'm sure you've planned the whole thing out. You'll take sweet, chaste, virginal Cosette and lay her down on your wedding bed – "

"I'll thank you not to talk about my fiancée that way."

"Will you go to confession after you've made love to her? 'Forgive me, Father, for I have bedded a lovely young virgin'?"

"It isn't a sin when she's your wife!" René was beginning to irritate him, and he wished that he could hit him or at least throw something at him. René, of course, was too clever to ride within striking distance, and all Jean-Claude could do was glare darkly at him.

" 'Oh, Jean-Claude, your sword is too big for my sheathe!' "

"Stop it!"

"Oh, you're no fun."

Jean-Claude urged his horse on, trying his best to ignore René. He thought of Cosette instead, of the life they would build together. He would purchase a house for them when he returned to Paris, he would create a home for her. They would make love, they would have children, his love and adoration for her would be as endless as the ocean. René could laugh and make lewd jokes all he wanted, but he would never have the love that Jean-Claude and Cosette had.

~xXx~

"Do you hear something?"

He looked at Heracles. Quasimodo's own hearing wasn't much good, and he strained to listen. Ringing the bells of Notre Dame had all but shattered his hearing, but now he could hear what Heracles was hearing. It was coming from the woods near Rosalie's shack; they'd been waiting for over an hour, sitting patiently outside in the sunshine. Heralces rose and headed towards the woods. Quasimodo followed him.

The sound was growing louder as they entered the thicket. It sounded a bit like someone moaning; it was a strange, high-pitched sound, not one of pain but pleasure. "Sounds like someone's out here with his wife," he said.

Heracles did not reply but pressed forward, pushing branches out of their path. Quasimodo followed him, stopping suddenly. His eyes widened in anger and surprise, and he felt himself rushing forward before he realized what exactly he was doing.

Marie was lying on the ground, her skirt bunched up around her waist, her blouse open. A boy was on top of her, his trousers down around his knees. Quasimodo did not see that Marie was kissing him or that the boy was running his hands through her hair. All he saw was the silent little girl who'd kept him company while he'd fished, smiling in delight as he pulled one in. Marie, little Marie, the girl he'd carried when she'd hurt her foot, was on the ground, being violated. He grabbed the boy, lifting him off of Marie. He did not hear them cry out in surprise as he shoved the boy, slamming him against a tree.

"What do you think you're doing, pervert?" he demanded.

The boy was sputtering, his voice a garbled mix of unintelligible French and Russian. Quasimodo was dimly aware that Marie was still on the ground, shrieking and attempting to cover herself.

"Quasimodo, wait – "

He did not listen to Heracles but instead jerked the boy forward. He slammed him into the tree again. The boy screamed. "Filthy rapist – I will kill you!"

"Stop it." He felt Heracles's hand on his shoulder and turned to him. Marie was standing beside him, trying to button her blouse and communicate at the same time. She was shaking her head, staring at the boy with love in her eyes. Quasimodo looked at the boy now.

"Please, I am not hurting to Marie," he said. He had a thick Russian accent and was difficult to understand. "I am loving her very much…"

He released the boy now, realizing for the first time that he'd lifted him about a foot or so off the ground. The boy tugged his trousers back up, panting and shaking with fear. "She says he didn't rape her," said Heracles. "She says she loves him."

"I'm sorry." Quasimodo turned to Marie. He couldn't see the little girl she'd once been, and this bothered him. He could no longer see the little girl clutching the wooden figurine he'd carved for her, smiling down at it in wonder. The sad truth – or perhaps it was a happy truth – was that Marie was not a little girl any more. She was a woman now. As much as it disgusted Quasimodo, she was old enough to be with a boy. He watched as she brushed past him, embracing the boy. He held her face in his hands and kissed her.

"Come on." Heracles motioned to the boy and Marie, and they came to him reluctantly. "I won't tell your mother." Marie started to make the hand motions that meant 'thank you,' but Heracles grabbed her hands, silencing her. "But you – you aren't supposed to do that unless you are married. Do you both understand?" Marie nodded, but the boy shook his head. Heracles rolled his eyes. "Do not make love to Marie unless you marry her first. Do you understand now?"

"I do not love Marie unless I am married to her?"

"Yes."

The boy nodded. "Da. I am understanding now."

"Good."

They emerged from the woods and Quasimodo watched as Marie and the boy headed in separate directions. The boy moved quickly, his head down; he looked thoroughly ashamed of himself. Marie glanced over her shoulder at Quasimodo and Heracles, then turned and headed towards the house she shared with her mother. "Do you think it's wise not to tell Rosalie?"

"She has enough things to worry about," said Heracles. "Besides, you scared that boy so badly, I doubt this will ever happen again."


	11. Still 1505, Part VI

STILL 1505…

He could always tell when Esmerelda was unhappy, and her unhappiness always spread to him. She did not want to discuss it, and he knew better than to pressure her. He sat beside her, stroking her hair and letting her lean against him. He liked sitting outside with her, staring aimlessly at the horizon. It was calm and peaceful.

"I love you, Phoebus," she said. "I love you so much."

"I love you, too."

She sighed. "My son was here yesterday."

Giovanni had told him about Jean-Claude Frollo's visit, and Phoebus still didn't know how he felt about it. He did not know Jean-Claude, had never laid eyes on the boy, but Esmerelda had assured him that Jean-Claude bore too strong a resemblance to his father. According to Katarina, Jean-Claude had the same personality traits as his late father, and this bothered Phoebus. Claude Frollo had destroyed countless lives; Phoebus hoped that his son wouldn't.

"What did he want?"

"He wanted to know why I left him in Paris, of course."

"What did you tell him?"

"The truth. I told him what his father did to me, how I couldn't bear to look at him because of it. He didn't believe me."

Phoebus nodded. He watch Esmerelda from now on, guard her, make sure that Jean-Claude didn't go anywhere near her. He'd kill the boy if he had to; he'd never do it in front of Esmerelda, nor would he tell her. But if the boy died and she never knew about it, surely it wouldn't matter much. Phoebus could always hide the body in the woods. It would never be found.

"Katarina says she saw him leave Lyon this morning," said Esmerelda, as if she'd read his mind. "I don't think he'll come back. He's made it perfectly clear that he wants nothing to do with me."

"I take it you want nothing to do with him."

She nodded. "I know it's horrible for a mother to hate her only son, but…"

"You have every right to hate him. After what his father put you through, you have every right."

Esmerelda snuggled closer to him. She looked up at him, her green eyes shining in the sunlight. "I love you so much, Phoebus."

~xXx~

"Fine. I'll forgive you if you stop apologizing, and if you never speak about Cosette that way again."

"All right," said Rene. "I'm glad we can put this unpleasantness behind us."

He knew that he had gone too far when he'd made the joke about Cosette, comparing her to a sheathe for Jean-Claude's sword, but he hadn't thought that Jean-Claude would get so angry. True, it had been a lewd joke, but there had been a certain cleverness to it; after all, Jean-Claude was a soldier and familiar with all sorts of swords and sheathes. Rene was relieved that Jean-Claude was talking to him again. The trek from Lyon to Paris was not a long one, but it went by much faster when there was someone to converse with.

"I think Lyon's changed me," he said.

"How's that?"

"Not only did I apologize to you, but I found that Gypsy girl and apologized to her yesterday."

"Did she slap you again?" Jean-Claude's tone was serious, but Rene could see the corner of his mouth turning upward into a smile.

"No."

"Did she…sheathe your sword?"

"No. She told me I was rude."

Jean-Claude laughed. "She was right."

"There's no need to rub it in." Rene let his thoughts wander back to the pretty Gypsy girl. She had told him that her name was Theresa, but she could have been lying. Theresa was a pretty enough name for her, though. He thought of her dancing, twirling in the street, the bells on her sash jingling as she moved. Her hips had swayed seductively, almost commanding him to stare at her. She'd been so graceful, so pretty; he was now thoroughly ashamed that he'd even thought her a harlot. The term seemed to cheapen her, to insult her dance.

"Why did you apologize to her?" asked Jean-Claude.

Rene shrugged. "No reason," he said.

"With you, there's always a reason," said Jean-Claude. "You probably thought you could get into her skirt if you acted the gentleman."

"Well, either way, I failed to bed her."

"That's what I like about you, Rene. You're honest when it comes to failure. A lesser man would have lied."

"A lesser man wouldn't have apologized to her."

~xXx~

She could not put it off any longer. She saw Heracles sitting outside of her home, and she knew that she would have to speak with him. Rosalie took a deep breath, and went over to him. He smiled and stood up when he saw her approach.

"Hello."

"Hello." She stared at him, wondering what he thought of her, what he remembered from the night before. "Thank you for taking care of me last night."

He shrugged. "It was nothing."

"I don't normally drink so much," she said, "it was irresponsible of me."

"It's happened to me at least a hundred times," he said, "though no one could ever lift me to carry me home."

Rosalie shifted. She was still carrying the potatoes that Anja's husband had given her. She had no real idea what she would do with them. She supposed that she should cook them and eat them. There were so many; they'd last her the rest of the week, she was certain. She balanced the sack against her hip. "Look, I'd like to make you dinner," she said, "would you run into my house and fetch a pan for me?"

"Of course. Mother always said not to turn down a free meal."

She headed towards the back of her shack and set the potatoes on the ground. She bent over the small fire pit she'd dug, piling fresh sticks into it. She lit the fire. She pulled her knife from her skirt and began peeling the potatoes, tossing the peels into the flames as they grew. She heard Heracles approach and saw him sit beside her out of the corner of her eye.

"If you're going to cook for me, I should at least help you."

He picked up a potato, drawing his own knife and peeling it. She took the pan from him and began cutting her potato, arranging the pieces in the pan. "I…I don't really remember what happened last night," she said. "Can…can you tell me what happened?"

"We were at the bonfire, and you had had quite a bit to drink." He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. "So I took you home and put you to bed."

"But why were you there when I woke up?"

"You asked me to stay. You said something about having nightmares – " he wouldn't look at her as he spoke, instead keeping his eyes glued to the potato he was peeling. Despite his careful gaze, he managed to cut his thumb. He swore, jerking his wounded hand back.

"Heracles, what did I really say?"

"You told me about the soldiers and what they did to you," he said, "and you asked me to stay and wake you if you had a nightmare."

She felt stupid and helpless and took the half-peeled potato from him. She finished peeling it, slicing it up and placing it in the pan with the other potato. She held the pan over the flames, watching as the potatoes began to cook. He probably thought she was weak. He probably pitied her. He probably thought that she needed him to help her feel secure, to assure her that no one would ever hurt her again.

"Rosalie," he said, "I don't know how to say this." He took a deep breath. "I care about you, and I want you to be happy. I want to make you happy. I'll do anything I can to make you happy."

"Please, I don't need you to pity me – "

"I don't. I mean, I feel terrible for what happened to you, but…but I also admire you." She stared at him, unaware that she had tilted the pan and that a piece of potato had fallen onto the fire. "I know so many women who would just…just…rather die than keep living – if they'd been through what you had, I mean. But you're different. You…you're strong, and you survived."

She gripped the pan, pulling it away from the fire to check the potatoes. They looked burnt. "I couldn't die," she said, "Pierre and Marie needed me." She used her knife to spear one of the potatoes and picked it up to examine it. "I don't feel very strong."

"I'd like to help you be strong. I think I can, but only if you'll let me."

Rosalie ate the piece of potato. It was burnt and tasted like ashes. She forced herself to swallow it and placed the pan on the ground beside her. She thought of Esmerelda, how strong she had seemed earlier in the day. If Esmerelda could be strong, why couldn't she? Did Esmerelda need someone to help her? Well, she had Phoebus and Katarina; they kept her strong. Who did she really have? She had Pierre and Marie, but it seemed different. She couldn't tell them what had happened to her. She couldn't inflict her pain upon them.

She looked at Heracles. He picked up a piece of potato, ignoring how hot it was, and ate it. She watched as he chewed; he was trying desperately not to gag as he swallowed the burnt potato. Would he be strong enough to take her pain away from her?

"This needs salt," he said.

"It tastes terrible." She took his hand. She was momentarily surprised at how large it was. She let him slide his fingers between hers, and she moved closer to him, leaning against his shoulder. "You're a good friend, Heracles," she said.


	12. Still 1505, Part VII

STILL 1505…

She knew that she would be alone moments before she woke, but she felt herself reaching for Giovanni anyway. She opened her eyes, disappointed to find him gone. Disappointed, but not surprised. He had left for Paris a few days ago. He'd assured her that he'd be back by the end of the week, but she felt impatient.

"I'll come back to you," he'd said, "I won't be content until I'm in your arms again."

Katarina sat up, smiling at the memory, and got out of bed. She could hear her mother in the next room tending to Dante and Musetta. She dressed as quickly as she could and went to help her. She truly didn't know what she'd do without her mother there to help her.

"How are you feeling today?" her mother asked.

"All right, I suppose." Katarina sat down, relieved to ease the tension in her legs. She stared down at her stomach.

"Rosalie said she'd stop by later to see how you're doing," her mother was saying, "she thinks the babies will come before the week is out."

Katarina could not get used to the idea of having twins. She prayed that there was only one baby within her, but the prayers seemed futile at this point. She could only hope that Giovanni would return soon and that he'd have money. She could not rely on the kindness of others forever. Oh, her mother certainly didn't mind, but Katarina did not want to continue to take from her.

"Oh. I'd hoped they wouldn't come until Giovanni was home…"

"I know, dear." Her mother handed her a mug of tea. "But I'll be here with Rosalie and Cassandra. Clopin and your father will watch Dante and Musetta. Just think, when Giovanni gets home, he'll have two little surprises waiting for him."

The thought of Giovanni bursting through the door made her smile. She sipped her tea, watching as her mother effortlessly scooped Musetta up into her arms. She balanced Musetta on her hip as she took hold of Dante's hand. "I think the three of us will go for a morning walk," she said. "You enjoy your tea. We'll be back shortly."

"Thank you, Mama."

Her mother nudged Dante. "Go give your mother a kiss."

He ran to her, his arms outstretched. She embraced him, ruffling his hair as he kissed her cheek. "Be good for your grandmother," she said.

"I will."

Her mother had set Musetta down, and Musetta ran to her now. Katarina bent, kissing her forehead and patting her cheek. She wondered if Giovanni missed her as much as she missed him.

~xXx~

Though he would later recall his wedding with perfect clarity, Jean-Claude's memory of it was blurry. All he knew was that he was now married to Cosette, and he was the happiest he had ever been. She was standing before him in their bedchamber, still wearing her white wedding dress, looking so beautiful and pure. He drew her to him and kissed her. He closed his eyes, savoring the softness of her lips, the warmth of her hands as they clutched his. There was no one to watch over them now. They had all the privacy in the world. Jean-Claude had to restrain himself, had to stop himself from tearing her dress open.

Cosette was not some back-alley harlot. She was his wife, and he would make love to her with respect and dignity. He gently undid the buttons on the back of her dress, secretly pleased that she was allowing him to do so. He felt her shiver with surprise as the dress slid off of her. He looked at her. She stood before him in her pristine white undergarments, staring up at him with love in her eyes.

He touched her face. "I love you so much."

"And I you."

They made their way toward the bed. Jean-Claude pulled off his formal black clothes. He lifted Cosette, kissing her before laying her down on the soft quilt. He sat beside her, holding her in his arms, kissing her face and neck. Her breath came in short, excited gasps, and she ran her hands along his back and shoulders, her smooth fingertips gliding over his skin. Cosette – his Cosette now, oh how he loved her – was a virgin in every sense of the word. No man had ever touched her, and now Jean-Claude would be the first, and only, man to do so. The thought thrilled him.

She lay down, letting him crawl on top of her. He entered her slowly, as gently as he could; someone, he could not remember who, had once told him that virgins found their first lovemaking session to be painful. He had hoped that this would not be the case for Cosette, but he could see the pain in her eyes as he broke the barrier inside of her. He kissed her, moving slowly, letting her get used to him.

"I love you," he whispered, kissing her face. "I love you more than anything."

She gasped his name, closing her eyes as she kissed his cheeks and neck. "Oh, Jean-Claude," she said, "I love you so much…"

The whole thing ended sooner than Jean-Claude would have preferred, but he was content knowing that he and Cosette were officially married now, and nothing could take that away from him. He held her, stroking her hair as she slept in his arms. He would report for duty tomorrow morning, and René would make a rude joke about his wedding night, but Jean-Claude didn't care. He let himself drift into sleep, dreaming about his sweet, beautiful, Cosette.

~xXx~

Theresa was endlessly amazed by Paris, and it reminded Giovanni of Katarina. He found himself laughing at Theresa's awe, but his heart yearned for his wife. He remembered rushing through the streets, struggling to keep up with Katarina. He remembered the way she used to laugh at him when she'd beaten him in a race, tossing her golden braid back over her shoulder.

His grandmother's health was far worse than Giovanni had first thought; her doctors had not permitted him to see her yet. They had assured him that they would come fetch him when she was well enough to see a visitor. He found himself pacing in the room that he and Theresa had rented, trying to become involved in Theresa's mindless chatter instead of worrying about an old woman he still hadn't met.

The doctor was at the door now, telling Giovanni that his grandmother could see him for a few hours. He and Theresa left, following the doctor through the streets. Giovanni found that they were leaving the crowded marketplace, moving towards the quieter streets, where the houses were bigger and surrounded by wrought-iron fences to keep thieves out.

His grandmother's house was large, and Giovanni found himself staring at in amazement. He had never seen a house so huge before. He and Theresa were escorted inside by a man dressed in a servant's uniform and told to wait in a small room filled with books and sofas. Giovanni suddenly felt inadequate. He'd seen people far wealthier than him, of course, and had never felt the need to compare himself to them. He'd always known that, as a Gypsy, he'd never earn the money needed for fancy furniture and clothing. He felt strange sitting on a sofa in his grandmother's house, though, staring down at his clothing and wishing that it was less shabby.

"Madam Castiza will see you now."

Giovanni rose, and he and Theresa followed the servant down a hallway. Giovanni glanced at Theresa. She seemed just as amazed and out-of-place as he, and he felt a bit better. At least he wasn't alone. The servant led them to a room at the end of the hall, but did not accompany them inside.

The room was small, but richly furnished. Tapestries and portraits hung on the walls. There was a small sofa in the center of the room, and, sitting on an overstuffed armchair across from it, was a frail-looking woman bundled in blankets. Giovanni approached her, and she turned her head, squinting at him.

"Is that my Giovanni?" she asked, lifting her head.

"Yes," he said.

She beckoned to him with a thin hand. "Come closer, my boy, I want to get a good look at you."

Giovanni obediently stepped forward, aware that Theresa was hanging back, her hands folded politely in front of her. He stood before the old woman, leaning in so that she could get a proper look at him. She reached for him, brushing her wrinkled hand against his face, making him turn his head this way and that. It felt awkward, as though she was examining him.

"You have your father's chin," she said, sounding somewhat disappointed, "but at least you've got your mother's hair and eyes." She pointed now to something on the wall. "That's your mother, my little Gratiana."

Giovanni turned. The portrait was large and showed a beautiful woman. Her skin was abnormally pale and her blonde hair was piled immaculately on top of her head. She seemed to stare benevolently out of the painting at him, her blue eyes unseeing. Giovanni couldn't imagine her throwing herself into the river Seine. He couldn't imagine her marrying a Gypsy. He couldn't imagine her holding him in her arms.

"I…I can't remember her," he said finally, turning back to the old woman in the chair.

"I'm told she died when you were very young," she said. "You see, she ran away to be with your father, and I didn't hear anything about her until about ten years after her death. Otherwise, I would have taken you in myself." She glanced over at Theresa now. "I see you've brought your wife with you…" there was something bitter and disapproving in her tone.

"No," he said, motioning for Theresa to come forward. He suddenly found himself wishing she hadn't worn the sash with the bells on it. The bells seemed louder than ever in the tiny, quiet room. "This is my cousin, Theresa."

"Hello." If Theresa had heard the hate in his grandmother's voice, she did an amazing job of hiding it.

"Well, at least you didn't marry a Gypsy." His grandmother turned to him, ignoring Theresa. "Tell me, dear boy, are you married?"

"Yes," he said. "Her name is Katarina."

"Why didn't you bring her?"

"She's pregnant," he said, "she couldn't make the trip in her condition."

"Ah! I'm to be blessed with great-grandchildren!" the old woman laughed and clapped her hands. "She isn't a Gypsy, is she?"

Giovanni could see Theresa squirm, and he felt offended as well. "No," he said, struggling to remain polite. "She's half-Gypsy, like me."

"Ah well, I suppose she was the best you could do in your circumstance," his grandmother continued, "a boy raised by Gypsies won't be able to marry into a respectable household. Still, though, I assume you're both happy?"

"Yes," he said, "and…I had a very happy childhood. My uncle raised me, and he did a fine job."

His grandmother stared at him. "My dear boy, what do you do for a living?"

"I'm a farmhand."

"I see. And do you make enough money to support your wife and unborn baby?"

"We actually have two children already," said Giovanni. He did not want to discuss money. His grandmother's insinuations about his poverty were painfully true, and her attitude towards his Gypsy heritage was downright offensive. He hoped that by shifting the conversation to the subject of babies, she'd become distracted.

"So you two already have mouths to feed?"

Giovanni sighed. "I don't make very much," he said. Mentioning his other children had only made matters worse.

"Were you and your wife married in a church?"

"No."

"Living in sin and poverty! I'll bet you aren't even baptized." She glared at Theresa as she spoke. Theresa shook her head. Giovanni could see her clenching her hands into fists and knew that she was struggling to remain calm and respectful. "Oh, Giovanni, had I known about you…" she sighed, letting her voice trail off. "Well, one can't change the past. I would like to get to know you, Giovanni. You're my only grandson, and I'd like to help you in any way I can."

"I…I'd like that…"

"There is one condition, though. I want you to stay here with me in Paris for a year. Who knows, I may not even live that long. I'll arrange for you to get an honest job so you can save some money for your wife and children, and when the year is up, I'll give you some more."

He missed Katarina so much already, and he'd promised that he'd return to her when the week was out. Could he really stay away from her for a whole year? And what about Theresa? Surely her father wouldn't want her to live so far away for an entire year. He'd have to find some way to send her back to Lyon; he could tell that it would be difficult. She looked so excited. She probably wanted to stay in Paris.

"My wife will need me," he said, "she's expecting the baby – "

"She'll be fine for a year," said his grandmother. "I'm sure your uncle will help her out."

It was true that Katarina had several people she could turn to for help. She had her own parents, and his aunt and uncle. He was sure Rosalie, Pierre, and Marie would come to her aid if she ever needed it. Katarina was surrounded by people she could depend on. "Well…let me send her a letter," he said, "to tell her about this arrangement."

"Of course. I don't allow Gypsies in my house, so your cousin cannot remain here. I'm sure she can find a room in town."

His grandmother's words stung him, and he turned to Theresa. Theresa looked too stunned to speak. She glanced helplessly at him, silently begging him to say or do something. "With all due respect, I promised my uncle that I would take care of her," said Giovanni, "I don't feel comfortable leaving her alone."

"Well, since your uncle raised you, I suppose you owe him that. Still, she cannot stay in this house. You may stay wherever you please."

"I'm going to stay with her," said Giovanni, reaching out and taking Theresa's hand. "We've been renting a room in an inn. I'm sure they'll let us stay there."

His grandmother nodded. She looked sleepy, as though she'd pass out at any moment. "Very well." She shifted in her chair, her watery blue eyes staring at him. She had the same dreamy gaze as his mother's portrait. "I'm growing tired, dear boy; I'm very old, you know. You can let yourselves out?"

"Yes, of course."

"Very well," she said sleepily. "Come back tomorrow at midday, Giovanni. Oh, and don't bring the Gypsy."

"Of course."

He left the room, pulling Theresa along behind him. They did not speak until they had reached the inn. Theresa sat down on her cot, staring at him. "I don't like her."

"She's a horrid old woman," he said. "I'm so sorry for what she said about you."

Theresa shook her head. "I just hope she keeps her word and gives you the money."

"Maybe I should just go back to Lyon," said Giovanni. "I mean, even if I do get a job here, I'll have to pay room and board at this inn. I'd make the same amount of money I already make in Lyon."

"I could help you."

"We both promised your father – "

"Oh, come on, Giovanni! I won't be too provocative. I won't entice anyone. We need as much money as we can get."

Giovanni buried his face in his hands. What if something happened to Theresa? The story his uncle had told her had been exactly what had happened to Katarina's mother. What if it happened to Theresa? What if some corrupted, powerful man saw her and wanted her? What if he took her against her will? He could not let that happen. He could not let Theresa, who was practically his little sister, get hurt. He would send her back to Lyon as soon as he could, then he would stay with his grandmother.

"I'm sending you back to Lyon."

"Oh Giovanni! Please don't! I swear, I'll be fine!" He looked at her. She was staring at him, her dark eyes pleading. "I'm not a little girl anymore. I can take care of myself."

As much as he hated thinking about it, she was right to a certain extent. She was no longer a child. Perhaps if she stayed away from the Palace of Justice she'd be safer. After all, that was where all of the licentious, corrupted men were. Perhaps if she stayed away from it, and remained careful, it would be all right. It would be dreadfully lonely in Paris. He shuddered at the thought of spending every waking moment listening to his grandmother rail against the Gypsies. He'd rather sit and talk with Theresa.

"All right," he said, "I'll write to Katarina and Clopin and tell them what's going on."

~xXx~

He was sorely tempted to question Jean-Claude about his wedding night, but he knew that it would be futile. Jean-Claude seemed much happier since marrying Cosette, and René knew that a lewd joke would only spoil it. When Jean-Claude was happy, he was less harsh with the rest of the guards, and everyone was relieved by this. The weeks leading up to Jean-Claude's wedding had been tedious; it had as though Jean-Claude was about to explode and kill everyone around him in the process.

No, he would not make any sort of comments (though he was so very tempted to). René was somewhat distracted. He'd seen Theresa in Paris. At least, he was fairly certain that it was Theresa; he'd never seen a Gypsy who wore bells on her sash or shoes for that matter. He could've sworn that he'd seen her in the marketplace, talking with a tall blonde man. René hadn't gotten a proper look at the girl; Gypsies all looked so much alike anyway. The dark skin, black hair, deep brown eyes, the brightly colorful clothing, it all looked the same to him.

Still, he liked to think that Theresa was somewhere in Paris, that he might see her again. He wasn't sure why exactly. He supposed that he liked her, or at least, he liked looking at her. She danced beautifully, after all. He certainly wouldn't mind watching her dance again.


	13. Still 1505, Part VIII

STILL 1505…

Both Theresa and Giovanni would be in Paris for an entire year, and Cassandra wasn't sure if she was furious about it or not. On the one hand, Theresa was not a little girl anymore; she was a woman, and it was time for her to go out and see the world. Cassandra knew that she'd be safe with Giovanni. She also knew, though, that Katarina missed Giovanni terribly. It was irresponsible for him to leave her at a time like this. She would need him most to help look after the twins.

She supposed that if she was indeed angry, then her anger should be directed at Giovanni's grandmother. The woman had every right to see him, to meet him and get to know him. She'd been denied for twenty-three years. Asking him to stay in Paris for an entire year was too much, though, especially for Katarina. Besides, the old woman did not sound entirely pleasant. According to Theresa's letter, she had insulted her and forbidden her from staying in her house simply because she was a Gypsy.

Katarina let out another scream, and Cassandra squeezed her hand. Katarina looked up at her, her green eyes watering and helpless. Rosalie was standing between her feet, telling her to push. Esmerelda was fluttering around Rosalie, preparing the hot water and towels that would be needed when the babies came. Cassandra had noticed a certain distance in Esmerelda lately; Esmerelda wouldn't look her in the eye. She had no time to ponder this now, of course, but she did wonder why this sudden change had occurred.

"I see the head, keep pushing, Katarina!"

Katarina screamed, gripping Cassandra's hand tighter. "Easy now," said Cassandra, "you're doing just fine. It'll be over soon."

Katarina seemed to nod to her; she was shaking and panting. Cassandra heard the loud, piercing sound of a baby crying and felt a rush of relief. Esmerelda was cradling the baby, bathing it carefully in the warm water. Rosalie was still standing by Katarina's feet, however, waiting with her hands out. Cassandra felt her relief begin to fade. Rosalie had mentioned something about twins. It was beginning to look like her prediction was coming true. Cassandra squeezed Katarina's hand and wiped the sweat from her brow, bracing herself for another of her screams.

~xXx~

She supposed that she felt somewhat guilty for disobeying her father. She had promised that she wouldn't dance for coins, but she wasn't sure of what else to do. She and Giovanni needed food, clothing, and shelter. She only danced out of necessity, and besides, the people of Paris treated her no differently than the people of Lyon had. No one had propositioned her or made lewd remarks, not even the soldiers who occasionally passed.

Men stopped and stared at her, as she'd known they would, but she did nothing to entice them. She wore blouses with high collars and tried not to move her hips as much. Her father worried too much, that was the trouble, and she'd let him spread his worry to her.

She liked dancing. She liked the freedom that came with movement. She liked the way the bells in her sash sounded when she twirled, she liked the way the coins sounded when they hit the pavement by her feet. Dancing was a strange, hypnotic experience; she barely noticed those around her. When she danced, she felt as though the entire world had stopped moving, that she was the only person in existence. It was a strange feeling, one that she found somewhat frightening but loved and craved nonetheless.

Paris was a big, beautiful city. She had explored most of it, moving seamlessly through crowds, staring up at buildings in awe and wonder. The Notre Dame cathedral loomed at its center, towering gracefully over everyone and everything. Its bells rang throughout the day, filling the air with their music.

"Notre Dame is the safest place in Paris," Giovanni had told her. "You can go inside and claim sanctuary, and no one can hurt you."

"What's sanctuary?"

"Well, if you're being chased by guards. If they think you've done something wrong and want to arrest you, you can come to Notre Dame, and they can't. No one can arrest you when you're in Notre Dame. It's the only place where God can truly protect you."

The cathedral was gorgeous, majestic, and it made her feel small and insignificant. Light poured through the stained glass windows, creating kaleidoscopes on the floor, and paintings of angels and saints lined the walls, seRenély watching the comings and goings. The statues were the most amazing of them all; they looked so real Theresa wouldn't have been at all surprised if one started moving and talking. Paris was as beautiful as she'd remembered, and she found herself wondering why they had left in the first place. Her memory of their flight from Paris was a dim one; it had had something to do with Katarina or her mother. Theresa made a mental note to ask Giovanni about it.

"Did you miss me enough to follow me to Paris?" The voice was somewhat familiar and the tone a playful one. Theresa turned around, tightening her grip on her hat full of coins. She was stunned to see the soldier – the lewd one who'd called her a harlot – smiling at her.

"What do you want?" she asked. She stepped away from him, glancing over her shoulder. The inn where she was staying with Giovanni was just around the corner, and Notre Dame was another block or so away. She briefly wondered if she could outrun him; his armor would surely weigh him down.

He shrugged. "I thought I'd seen you around," he said, "but I wasn't sure until now."

He didn't seem particularly threatening. He obviously had no intention of arresting her. After all, she'd done nothing wrong. Still, the fact that he was just standing there talking to her like an old friend was bothering her. Soldiers were bad men, the kind of men who loved hurting others and causing bloodshed. They were greedy and licentious, and always wanted the worst things from people.

"I saw you dancing earlier," he continued, his voice nonchalant. "You dance beautifully."

She was flattered by the compliment, and this immediately disgusted her. "Thank you, I suppose."

"So, why are you in Lyon? You obviously aren't here to see me…"

"It's none of your business."

He stepped towards her, and she backed away from him. "I'm afraid it is," he said, "you see, as Lieutenant of the Guard, I have to know what's going on in Paris."

"I'm here to visit someone," she said. She took another step back, aware that it made her look afraid. She didn't care how it made her look; she was beginning to grow uncomfortable.

The soldier did not move. He seemed to sense her fear, and she found it strange that he wasn't using it to his advantage. After all, soldiers thrived on fear. They loved it. "I see. And how long will you be in Paris?"

She shrugged. "A year, maybe less."

He smiled. "I'm glad." She stared at him, not knowing what to say. Why on earth would he be glad? Why would he even care? "It means I'll get to see you more often," he continued.

"René, you aren't being paid to flirt."

René turned to the voice; Theresa could see him blushing with embarrassment. A man who could only be the Captain of the Guard stood before René. He was tall and pale, and he glanced at her briefly.

"I'm sorry, Captain," said René. "I was just…questioning…this Gypsy…"

"What for?"

"Well, it's our job to know everyone in Paris, to know their business and such – "

The Captain rolled his eyes. "You don't have to talk to Gypsies unless you're arresting them," he said, "and you know that. You'll have plenty of time to get into her skirt when you're not on the job."

Theresa glared at him. He was talking about her like she was a whore, saying filthy things about her like she wasn't even there, like she didn't matter. She turned to leave. She wanted nothing to do with either of these men. Perhaps this street was part of their route; she would have to find another place to dance in order to avoid them.

"Where do you think you're going?"

The Captain's tone was a harsh, angry one, and Theresa stopped. She turned to him slowly. He was glaring at her. He beckoned to her; clearly he was too important to actually approach her. She went to him slowly, carefully, trying not to get too close to either of them. "Prostitution is illegal," he said, "and if you were indeed trying to sell yourself to my lieutenant, I will have to arrest you."

She shook her head. "I'm not a whore," she said. She found herself wanting to slap him for even thinking such a thing.

"No," said René. "She wasn't trying to sell herself to me, Captain. I was the one who approached her – I had seen her in Lyon and wanted to say 'hello.' That's all. She didn't do anything illegal."

The Captain nodded to the hat she was clutching. "Where did you get that money?" he asked.

"I earned it."

"Doing what?"

"Dancing."

"Hm." He tilted his head, staring at her. His eyes were blue, and they felt cold and piercing. "Go on then," he said. He glanced at René. "That is, if you're certain she's done nothing illegal…"

"No, nothing at all."

The Captain shrugged. "All right then. Go."

She left. She had to force herself not to run; running would only provoke him, make him chase after her. It would also show her fear. Despite the terror that was slowly loosening its grip on her heart, she did not want these soldiers to think she was afraid. It would make her look vulnerable, weak. She was anything but weak. She was strong, and she would show them that. She walked away from them with her head held high, looking beautiful and fearless.

~xXx~

He hated to think that Katarina would have the twins while he was away. Lately, it had been the only thing he could think about, despite his best efforts to think of other things. He sat with his grandmother for an hour each day and talked with her. She told him stories about his mother, and he told her carefully edited tales about his own life. He did not particularly like lying to her, omitting certain facts, but he knew that she had a low opinion of his people and didn't want to say anything to lower it further. He told her about growing up in Paris and helping his uncle with the puppet theatre. He mentioned Pierre and Marie, but not Pierre's uncanny ability to steal. He told her how he had met Katarina, but never mentioned fleeing from her "false father."

His grandmother had gotten him a "respectable" job. Giovanni personally found carpentry no different from farming. Both jobs involved physical labor and long hours in grueling conditions. Both jobs paid adequately, though carpentry paid in coins instead of vegetables and the occasional rabbit. He saved his money, keeping it hidden under his cot. Theresa insisted on giving her earnings to him, and he felt horrible for taking money from her. He hated the fact that she'd broken her promise to her father, that she was dancing in the street for coins. Her money came in handy, though; it helped them eat and pay the rent on the cheap room.

His grandmother occasionally asked him to leave Theresa in the inn and stay with her. He politely refused, reminding her that he was in charge of looking after his cousin. She nodded, and sometimes told him that, as a Gypsy, Theresa could look after herself just fine. She refused to understand that he'd grown up with her, that he saw her as a little sister, that he loved her as one. This stung him, made him hate her, but he swallowed his anger. He could not afford to make his grandmother hate him. Everything he loved depended on her generosity.

~xXx~

"I'm surprised she didn't slap you."

"What?"

"That Gypsy girl."

"She was the one who slapped you in Lyon?"

"Yes."

Jean-Claude stared at the spot where the girl had been. She'd been strangely beautiful in a way that he couldn't put his finger on. The way she'd glared at him, her dark eyes blazing with anger, held a certain attraction. It shamed him to think her pretty. After all, he was married, and Cosette was far more beautiful than some Gypsy harlot. Cosette was sweet and pure and chaste. The Gypsy girl was anything but; he'd seen her dancing in the street, shaking her hips, inviting the men to stare at her. It was disgusting. She probably was a prostitute, and he regretted not arresting her. René had only stood up for her because he wanted to bed her, which he could probably do any time he wanted. As long as he was willing to pay her, the Gypsy girl would do whatever he wanted.

All Gypsies were like that. They lied and stole, they sold their filthy bodies in dark alleys. They danced, swaying seductively, making men stare, filling their heads with unholy thoughts. Jean-Claude could see the Gypsy girl in his mind's eye, could see her dancing. She twirled, the bells on her sash jingling, bringing his eyes to her slim hips. Her dress was red, the color of lust, and her eyes were dark and smoldering, burning into him with a passionate, consuming anger. She, like so many of her Gypsy sisters, routinely turned men's thoughts to sin and damned their souls.

Well, she could twist a weaker man's mind. René's, for example. René, who dallied with whores and bragged about it, René who told obscene jokes. René was weak. Jean-Claude was anything but. He would remain faithful to Cosette in word, thought, and deed. He would not dishonor her by fantasizing about some dirty little Gypsy. Not when Cosette was there waiting for him each night. Though they were married, though she was no longer a virgin, she had a certain, special purity to her. She was virtuous, and her virtue was beautiful. She would never stoop to shake her hips or sully her body the way that Gypsy did. In truth, the Gypsy's sinful ways should render her ugly, but the girl was an agent of the devil. Agents of the devil were always pleasing to the eye.

"Listen, she really didn't do anything wrong," said René.

"The only reason you should talk to a Gypsy is when you arrest one," said Jean-Claude. "I had better not catch you flirting her while you're on duty again."

"Of course."


	14. Still 1505, Part IX

STILL 1505…

Time dragged. It moved with a painful slowness that was accentuated by his loneliness. He missed Katarina, missed her with all his heart, longed for her. He'd read and re-read all her letters, memorizing them. The twins had been born; one was male, the other female. Katarina had named them Marc and Louisa. They were growing slowly and steadily. It pained Giovanni to think that they would be a year old when he would see them. He was missing so much. They were his children, his babies, and he couldn't even hold them in his arms.

Dante and Musetta were behaving relatively well. They were active children, just as he and Katarina had been; Clopin and Esmerelda were forever chasing after them, begging them to sit still, if only for a moment. Giovanni knew that he should find this amusing, but it filled him with guilt. His uncle was getting old, as was Esmerelda. Giovanni should be the one chasing after Dante and Musetta. They were his responsibility.

He could not stand his grandmother, and he felt guilty for this as well. She was his grandmother, the only living link he had to his mother. He was supposed to love her. She did nothing to mask her hatred of Gypsies; she had practically slandered everyone in his family, and he couldn't say anything against her. He hated the fact that he needed money so badly. He hated being so poor.

He knew that Theresa loved Paris, though, and he tried to let her joy infect him. They'd been in Paris for about five months or so, but she was still awestruck by it. She seemed to find new, interesting things every day, and she told him about them in great detail during dinner. Her happiness was refreshing, and it made him forget his own, if only for a few moments.

~xXx~

He'd seen Theresa more often. He was starting to wonder if he was seeking her out without knowing it, searching for her without realizing what he was doing. He loved to watch her dance. He stood at the back of the crowds that gathered around her; he knew that if she saw him, she'd leave. She hated him, and he knew he couldn't blame her for it. She'd probably been taught to stay away from soldiers. Still, he found himself wanting to change her mind, to prove to her that he wasn't a bad person.

René was tempted to talk to her again, but he did his patrols with Jean-Claude, and did not want to risk his wrath again. Jean-Claude had been right, of course; he was being paid to keep the streets of Paris safe, not to flirt. Still, one conversation was harmless, wasn't it? Surely Jean-Claude knew that Paris would not fall apart if he spared a few minutes to talk to a pretty girl in the street.

Jean-Claude had been preoccupied lately. He had a strange, distant look in his eye, as though he wasn't really in Paris at all but lost inside of his own thoughts. This made René uncomfortable. He had tried to figure out what exactly was going on with Jean-Claude, but to no avail. Jean-Claude was a very private person. If something was wrong, he'd never admit it.

René glanced back over his shoulder. He'd heard the bells on Theresa's sash and knew that she was somewhere in the crowd behind him, twirling gracefully. She always smiled while she danced. Jean-Claude had gone on ahead of him; he was dealing with some dispute between two grocers in the marketplace, and was not paying the slightest bit of attention to René.

René turned to Theresa, watching as she continued to dance. She smiled while she danced, and he found himself wondering if she would ever smile at him. If he could talk to her, surely he could make her smile for him. Thunder rumbled, and René felt the first few drops of rain. The crowd around Theresa seemed to evaporate, and she dropped to her knees immediately, scooping up the coins that had fallen around her hat. René went to her, kneeling to help her.

Her head snapped up the minute she noticed someone else touching her money, and she glared at him. "This is my money," she said, "I earned it."

"I know," he said, handing her the coins. "I'm just helping you collect it."

She snatched them from him. "I'd rather you didn't."

"And why's that?"

She stared at him. "What do you want from me?"

"Nothing."

She glared at him again. "That isn't true. Soldiers always want something."

"Now who told you that?"

"My father," she replied. She stood up, clutching the little purple hat filled with coins. René stood, glancing over his shoulder at Jean-Claude. The rain had begun to fall somewhat steadily, but Jean-Claude did not appear to notice. He was standing before the two grocers, nodding and listening while they argued.

"Well, I suppose he was right," said René. "I do want one thing from you." She did not reply, but tightened her grip on the hat, clutching it to her. "I want your forgiveness."

"For what?"

"The way I treated you in Lyon," he said, "it was wrong of me to speak to you that way – "

"You've already apologized."

He had never been interrupted by a Gypsy before, and it made him feel awkward. Gypsies had no respect for soldiers (they had no respect for anyone, really), but they always made a show of being polite when he was forced to talk with them. He assumed that they did it out of fear. "Yes, I did," he said, "but you didn't forgive me."

"If I forgive you, will you leave me alone?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Fine," she said, nodding to him, "I forgive you."

"And I thank you for it." The rain was beginning to fall much harder. Theresa squirmed, flinching as the icy droplets hit her bare shoulders. "You know, you're much prettier when you smile."

"Excuse me?"

"I noticed that you smile when you dance," he said, "and it makes you look prettier." He threw another glance back at Jean-Claude, who was now attempting to prevent the grocers from starting a fistfight. "Damn. It looks like I'm needed." He turned back to Theresa, though only to say a proper goodbye, and saw her running in the opposite direction, her black hair flying. He watched her melt into the dispersing crowd, wondering what it would be like to run his fingers through her damp hair, then turned and went to help Jean-Claude.

~xXx~

Hans and Frieda loved to travel, but they always returned to their native Germany. They had a regular band of fans in Germany; Quasimodo had never learned their names, but he recognized their faces. The group of men and women who came to every show and hung around the tents afterwards, bringing bottles of wine and chattering in German. He didn't mind their company. He couldn't understand them, but he liked to watch them talking with Hans, Frieda, and the others.

They would not be moving back through France right away. They would first wind their way through Germany and the towns that dotted Switzerland's border. Heracles did not seem terribly upset by this, and this surprised Quasimodo. Lately he'd been in a good mood, despite being away from Lyon.

He loved Rosalie. Quasimodo could tell; Heracles denied it, of course, telling him to mind his own business. It was more than obvious. Quasimodo wondered why he didn't just stay in Lyon if he loved her so much. True, the circus wouldn't be the same without Heracles, but it wouldn't collapse either. Hans and Frieda would probably find another strong man, and the show would go on. Recently Heracles had begun sending letters to Rosalie. He never got a reply; she probably couldn't read or write. What was the point in sending letters to someone who couldn't read? What was the point in writing to someone who never responded?

It wasn't his business, and he left Heracles to write his letters. He wandered around the tents, finding Frieda and some of her German friends sitting around a campfire.

"Quasimodo! Come sit with us!" He settled down beside Frieda. She patted his knee, then turned to the rest of the group, saying something to them in German. "Viktor here – " she pointed to one of the men, " – noticed the carving you made for my birthday. He was quite impressed." The man said something. "He said it's beautiful. He wants to commission a similar portrait of his wife."

Quasimodo nodded. "I'd love to," he said.

Frieda smiled at him, and he lifted her up onto his lap; she'd been experiencing neck pains lately, and Quasimodo assumed that it was from constantly looking up at people. Perched on his knee, she was roughly at eye-level with the rest of the group. Plus, she wouldn't have to hold herself up on her hands, giving her weary arms some much-needed rest. She leaned against his shoulder, her curly red hair brushing against his cheek.

Frieda was fairly pretty. She did not have the delicate, graceful beauty that Esmerelda had; she had something else, something rough and solid and strong. The way she moved, racing across the ground on her hands, was amazing. She moved faster than people with normal, functioning legs. Her voice had a certain quickness to it, as though she was always in a hurry to say something, and it was loud. It was funny to hear a great, booming voice come from such a small woman.

Someone was passing around a wine bottle, and Quasimodo took it, handing it to Frieda. She thanked him, sniffing at the wine before taking a long swig. She handed it to him, saying something in German to the others. "Viktor here always brings the best wine," she said, handing the bottle to Quasimodo.

Quasimodo drank. The wine was sweet. He wiped his mouth, passing the bottle along. "He has excellent taste," he said.

The chatter continued. Quasimodo leaned back, gazing lazily at the dwindling fire as Frieda and the others conversed in German. The bottle was passed around and around until it was empty, then another was produced. By the time that bottle had been drained, the fire was all but out, and Quasimodo felt his eyelids growing heavy. Frieda turned to him, her green eyes sleepy from the wine and firelight. "Can you bring me back to my caravan?" she asked.

"Sure." He stood up, sliding her onto his shoulder. She gripped his back, calling out her goodbyes in German. The others waved, and Quasimodo smiled at them as he turned and left.

He climbed up the steps to Frieda's caravan and opened the door. He entered the darkened room, found a candle and lit it. "Here we are." He gently set Frieda down on the floor.

Frieda was looking at him. "You don't have your own caravan, do you, Quasimodo?"

"No," he said. "I sleep with Heracles and some of the other roustabouts."

"Why don't you stay with me a while," said Frieda. "I'm not tired yet." She turned and began to move towards a trunk that was on the other side of the narrow chamber. "Close the door, will you?"

Quasimodo shut the door. He turned around, stunned to find Frieda sitting by the trunk with her back to him. She had taken her blouse off and was rooting through the trunk, searching for something. Quasimodo turned around quickly. He had never seen a naked woman before. Oh, he'd seen paintings and pictures; he knew what women were supposed to look like. He'd just never actually seen one. He felt rude for having stared so long at Frieda's naked back.

"What's the matter?" He turned at the sound of her voice and instantly covered his eyes. Frieda was holding a plain cotton shirt; she hadn't bothered to put it on. She laughed now. "You don't have to do that!"

He found himself peeking at her through his fingers. She still hadn't put the shirt on, though she had folded her arms across her chest. "It…I'm just trying to be polite…"

"You've never seen a woman before, have you?"

"I've seen paintings."

She unfolded her arms and began to move towards him. "But you've never seen a real woman…"

"No." He shut his eyes. As she had moved from the shadows into the light, he had realized that she was completely naked. There were small, shriveled stumps where her legs would be. Quasimodo wasn't sure if he felt sickened by them or not; he'd never even imagined what the remnants of Frieda's legs looked like.

"Quasimodo." He felt her tugging on his pant leg and lowered his hands. He opened his eyes, staring down into her face. "I want you to see me."

He lifted her, placing his hands carefully on her waist. Her skin was soft and smooth, so unlike the rough palms of her hands. She touched his face, running her fingertips along his cheeks. He stayed perfectly still, almost afraid that the moment would end if he moved. He stared at Frieda, his eyes roving over the face he had practically memorized and down towards the parts of her that were still completely foreign. He was surprise to find that the freckles that splashed across her face dotted the rest of her as well. Her body was like the night sky.

"You're beautiful," he said. He saw her shake her head. "No, Frieda. It's like looking at Heaven…"

She looked down at herself. "I wouldn't call it Heaven," she said, "I'm sure if you saw the twins naked – "

"No," he said. "It's your freckles." He sat down, setting her on his knee as he'd done by the campfire. He traced his finger along the freckles on her stomach. "They're like stars."

She laughed. "You're tickling me!"

"I'm sorry."

She was still laughing when she leaned over and kissed him. He had never kissed anyone before, and the feel of Frieda's lips against his made his heart flutter. He closed his eyes, letting her lips guide his.

~xXx~

Cosette was pregnant. At first, the small bump on her stomach had filled him with joy, but now he felt worry and fear building up within him. What if the baby bore a resemblance to his Gypsy mother? What if it her dark, Gypsy eyes and complexion? He would be forced to tell Cosette the truth, that his mother had not been a Parisian woman but a Gypsy. He couldn't bear to do this. What if she stopped loving him? What if she grew to hate him? He needed her love, craved it more than anything; without it, he'd surely shrivel up and die.

Jean-Claude tried to assure himself that the baby would not look like his mother. The baby would resemble him and Cosette. It would have her fine, chestnut-colored hair and his blue eyes. It would not look like a Gypsy. He told himself this over and over, but the fear still lingered in his heart.

He had noticed René talking to the Gypsy girl in the marketplace, and he was furious of course. René had disobeyed a direct order, and had done so flagrantly, in front of him. René was his friend, and he did not like treating him like an inferior. Still, it was René's job to follow his orders, and he'd deliberately chosen not to.

Perhaps René was not in control of himself. Perhaps the Gypsy was a witch and had cast a spell on him. It was certainly possible. Most, if not all, Gypsy women were witches. Jean-Claude was now convinced that his own mother could be one. She must have bewitched his father, tricked him into marrying her, then murdered him when she had tired of him. It was the only explanation he could think of. Now René was under a similar spell. Either that, or he desperately wanted to get into the girl's skirt.

The girl was pretty. She seemed to know it. She flaunted her beauty, shaking her hips seductively, practically begging men to stare at her. She had clearly inflamed René's lust. Perhaps she was trying to capture Jean-Claude's as well; lately he'd seen her everywhere, and he found himself thinking about her more and more. He closed his eyes and saw her dancing in his head, smiling as she twirled, her flame-red skirt swirling around her shapely legs. He felt guilty for thinking about her, for wanting her. He was married, for Heaven's sake! He had a beautiful wife, and he would soon be blessed with a child. He had no reason to want or even think about the dancing Gypsy girl.

Still, he did think about her, and this bothered him. According to René, she would not be staying in Paris long. She had said she would be in Paris for a year, and five months had already gone by. She'd be gone in seven months' time, and Jean-Claude was certain he'd forget her before then. After all, he had his beautiful Cosette and the baby they would soon be blessed with.

~xXx~

_"I noticed that you smile when you dance, and it makes you look prettier."_

She replayed the words in her head, despite the nagging voice that told her not to. René was a soldier; he was lying to her. He didn't mean a word he said. He only wanted to get into her skirt, and he would forget her the instant she let him. Still, she'd felt flattered by his compliment.

Theresa sighed, staring out the window. Part of her hoped that she'd see René again, that he'd pass by the street and smile up at her. Perhaps she would smile down at him, and he would tell her she was pretty. Theresa pushed the thoughts away. Thinking about René was a waste of her time. He would never truly love her. After all, she was only a Gypsy, and everyone knew how soldiers treated Gypsies; soldiers acted as though Gypsies had no dignity and deserved no respect. She'd seen her parents treated this way, and it infuriated her. It had been long ago, one of her few lingering memories of the Court of Miracles. She dimly recalled a group of soldiers searching their caravan, knocking things over, smashing them without bothering to apologize. She remembered a man approaching her mother, staring at her harshly and questioning her; she remembered her mother crying into her father's shoulder afterwards.

She told herself to forget René, that he would only treat her this way once he'd gotten what he wanted. She knew what he wanted, of course; he'd offered to pay her for it back in Lyon, and no amount of apologizing would earn her forgiveness. She'd lied to him, of course, about forgiving him. She'd hoped that he would leave her alone if she agreed to accept his lie of an apology; she knew, though, that he wouldn't. He'd continue to 'woo' her until she gave in and let him have his way with her, then he'd forget she even existed.

Her head told her to forget René, to ignore him, but she couldn't stop thinking about him. She wondered if he really was being sincere, and she found herself hoping that he was, though she couldn't say why. She could never love him, just as he could never love her. Still, she found that she didn't really mind seeing him. He liked to watch her dance, he thought she was pretty, and these things flattered her.

She turned away from the window now, wishing that Giovanni would hurry up and come back. Talking with him would distract her from her own confusing thoughts, if only for a while.


	15. Still 1505, Part X

STILL 1505…

He wished that Rosalie could read her own letters. He didn't mind reading them to her, it was no trouble. The letters were private, though, and he respected her privacy. Clopin had no desire to know what sort of feelings Rosalie and Heracles shared. Knowing made him feel dirty, for lack of a better word.

Enjolras had been one of Clopin's closest friends. He'd been dead for over ten years, and Rosalie certainly wasn't being forced to remain true to his memory. She was a grown woman, and could do what she pleased. Still, the thought of her with someone else, someone who wasn't Enjolras, made Clopin uneasy. He had the sense that whatever Rosalie and Heracles shared wasn't romantic, but that it would be. Whatever it was, it was like a flower slowly blossoming. It made him uncomfortable.

It would no doubt make Pierre and Marie uncomfortable as well. Clopin was certain that Marie had no real memories of her father, and that Pierre's were vague at best. They had never really seen their mother with a man before, and seeing her with one who clearly wasn't their father would upset them, or at the very least confuse them. Pierre no longer lived with his mother and sister, but he had noticed the letters, and had asked Clopin about them. Pierre had inherited his mother's persistence, and his incessant questions about the letters were quickly becoming irritating.

"Those letters are your mother's," he said, "they are none of your business."

"If Heracles is courting my mother, I have every right to know – "

"Then ask her yourself."

Pierre sighed. "She won't tell me."

"Because it's none of your business. She's a grown woman, she can make her own decisions."

"I know that," said Pierre. He was wringing his hands, rubbing the space where the little finger on his left hand used to be. He had no idea how lucky he was to just lose a finger instead of his entire hand; in Paris, most thieves lost their hands, and repeat offenders lost their lives. The missing finger reminded Clopin of Enjolras's death. He hoped that Pierre wouldn't share his father's fate. "It's just…Heracles will never be my father…"

"Of course he won't be," said Clopin. "He isn't trying to take his place. He likes your mother. He wants to make her happy, and that's why he writes her letters. They make her happy."

"She can't read."

"I read them to her, you know that."

"That…that's not what I meant…"

"Pierre, your mother can't stay alone forever," said Clopin. "She will always love your father, always. But, well, you know that women need certain things – "

"Yes, I know."

"Your mother needs companionship."

Pierre nodded. He was staring down at his hand now, staring at the place where his finger used to be. "I saw him yesterday, you know."

"What?"

"The guard who cut my finger off. I don't think he recognized me." Pierre let his hand fall back to his side. "Have you heard from Giovanni lately?"

"I got a letter from him about a month ago," said Clopin. "Theresa is enjoying herself. She loves Paris. Giovanni misses Katarina and the babies, of course, and he can't stand his grandmother."

~xXx~

His daily sessions with his grandmother had been growing shorter and shorter due to her quickly deteriorating health. Giovanni found that he was grateful for this; he couldn't stand the sound of her voice, or the hateful words that seemed to endlessly spew from her mouth.

"That cousin of yours," she was saying, "I saw her yesterday from my window. She was dancing in the street, just like a harlot! Thank goodness the guards chased her off. She was offending everyone, I'm sure. You really must speak with her, dear boy, at least ask her to be respectful. I know Gypsies can't change their sinful ways…"

Giovanni nodded politely, tuning her out. He knew that his grandmother hadn't seen Theresa; Theresa spent most of her time in the square near Notre Dame. His grandmother must have seen a different girl. She was an old woman, and her eyesight was poor. Besides, if Theresa had encountered any guards, she would have mentioned it to him. Giovanni glanced towards the window, wishing that his grandmother would dismiss him so he could leave. He did not feel like sitting with her and talking.

"Dear boy, tell me again about your wife, Katherine. What's her maiden name?"

"Katarina," he corrected, "her name is Katarina, and her maiden name is Phoebus. Katarina Phoebus."

His grandmother nodded. Katarina had disowned her other name, the name she'd been baptized with, 'Katarina Frollo.' Giovanni knew that she had taken on her father's last name after finally meeting him, but he could never remember what it was. He was so used to calling her 'Katarina Phoebus.'

"Strange," his grandmother was saying, "I must have had her confused with someone else."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, a long time ago, there was a judge whose daughter went missing. Her name was Katherine Frollo."

"I hadn't heard about that," he lied.

"I knew her father," continued his grandmother, "briefly, though, mind you. Not personally. He was a good man, Claude Frollo, very kind." This sounded nothing like the man who had thrown him into a prison cell and relentlessly pursued Katarina. "He was murdered, you know, by Gypsies."

"Did they ever catch who did it?" Giovanni wished that he could tell her that she was wrong, that Gypsies had not murdered Claude Frollo. She'd throw a fit if she'd known that Phoebus had been the one to kill him.

"No, unfortunately. You know how crafty Gypsies are, dear boy. They killed Claude and his younger brother, and they got away with it!"

"That's…that's a shame," said Giovanni.

"Yes it is, dear boy, yes it is."

~xXx~

"That's wonderful news! Why on earth didn't you tell me sooner?"

Jean-Claude shrugged. "Because you would've made a joke about it."

"Oh come on," said René. "What would I have said? That I always knew you and Cosette would be bringing stern, solemn little babies into the world?" Jean-Claude groaned and rubbed his forehead, but René only smirked. "Well, I think a congratulatory drink is in order after we finish our shift."

"All right, but I can't stay out long. I promised Cosette I'd be home in time for supper."

"Has she got you on a leash, too?"

Jean-Claude glared at him. "I happen to love and respect her, and I promise to be home for supper. I certainly won't break my word to go out drinking with you."

"I'm sorry," said René. "I'll buy you a beer later, and then you can leave the tavern."

He found himself wondering why Jean-Claude hadn't told him about Cosette's pregnancy sooner. She was already four months along; in another five, Jean-Claude would be a proud father. They sat down in the tavern, and René signaled for the bartender to bring them two mugs of ale. "To you and Cosette," he said, "and your future bloodline."

"May it never thin."

They drank. René noticed that Jean-Claude drank his ale quickly, but he did not comment on it. After all, Jean-Claude wanted to get home to Cosette, and René couldn't really blame him. He supposed that if he had a wife as pretty as Cosette, he'd want to get home to her too. If he had a wife as pretty as Theresa, though, he'd never go out. He was thinking about her even as Jean-Claude left, thanking him for the drink hurriedly. René ordered another drink, staring into the mug and imagining Theresa dancing in the swirling foam.

He was startled to see her enter the tavern, and she looked equally stunned to see him sitting there at the bar. She took a few steps forward, hesitating; he could tell she was debating whether or not to turn and leave. He smiled at her, beckoning to her. She moved toward him, glancing over at the bartender as she did so.

"What brings you here?" he asked.

"I'm renting a room upstairs," she said. She did not look at him but instead waved to the bartender. He approached her, pulling a key from his apron. He handed it to her, and she thanked him.

"Perhaps you'd like to stay and have a drink with me?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No."

"Oh come on," he said, "I'll pay for it." She stared at him, biting her lower lip as if trying to decide. "Just sit with me for a few minutes," he said, "I won't bite, I promise."

"All right," she said, sitting down on the stool next to him. She crossed her legs, sitting rigidly, keeping a large gap between the two of them. He did not move to close it. She would leave the minute she felt uncomfortable, and then he'd never get a smile out of her.

"What would you like?"

"Tea."

He nodded to the bartender, who immediately busied himself with the hot water. He poured tea for Theresa, and she thanked him. She held the cup up to her face, inhaling the sweet smell from the tea. "You know, I didn't mean to frighten you yesterday."

"You didn't."

"But you ran away."

"It was raining."

"Do you always run in the rain?"

She looked at him, sipping her tea. She was not glaring darkly at him, shooting invisible daggers from her eyes, but she was not smiling either. He could sense the smile lurking beneath her lips, though, struggling to show itself. Why wouldn't she smile for him? "I didn't want to get wet," she said, "and besides, you were about to leave anyway."

"Yes, but I'd wanted to say a proper goodbye to you."

"Oh." She sipped her tea again. "I'm sorry."

"You have my forgiveness." She smiled at him. Her smile was a small, shy one, but it was a smile nonetheless. "You look so pretty when you smile."

"I should go." She set the teacup down; it was still full. He was tempted to reach for her, to take hold of her hand. Her cheeks were flushed; was she blushing?

"You're not done with your tea."

"I'm not thirsty," she said quickly. "Thank you, though."

He finished his beer. "Well, if you must go, I won't hold it against you. Goodnight, Theresa."

"Goodnight." She left quickly, her head held high. He watched her, digging into his coin pouch to pay the bartender. He glanced down at the still-full teacup, then picked it up and drank. This was the cup she had touched, the tea that had kissed her lips. He let the liquid slide down his throat even though it burned. Drinking her tea was probably as close as he would ever get to touching her.

~xXx~

The Gypsy girl – the one who danced with the bells on her sash, the one René was always shamelessly ogling – was outside the tavern when he left. She was on the other side of the door, reaching for the handle when he opened it, nearly hitting her in the face. She managed to jump back in time. She glared at him, and he found himself apologizing even though there was really no need to. She'd probably be safer from René's advances with a smashed face anyway.

Jean-Claude hurried away from her; he didn't find the thought amusing. He glanced over his shoulder, watching as she slipped into the tavern, her hips swaying in the dimming light. She had invaded his thoughts lately, and he hated himself for thinking about her. He was a married man. He had sworn to remain true to Cosette, and thinking about the Gypsy girl broke that vow. Perhaps it was because the Gypsy girl was so vastly different from his Cosette. The Gypsy girl was wanton and seductive, her dark eyes blazed as she shook her hips, inviting men to stare at her. She let her skirt swirl around her legs, she wore blouses that left her shoulders bare. Cosette would never do such things. Cosette, who never left the house without a shawl, who did not twirl and shake her hips and practically beg men to stare at her – Cosette was the woman he loved, not the Gypsy girl.

Still, he found himself thinking about the Gypsy girl, imagining what it would be like to touch her. With Cosette he was always gentle; he made love to her with tenderness. It was what she wanted, what she deserved. The Gypsy girl did not deserve love or tenderness, and she would not want it either. She would let him treat her roughly, would let him grope at her and pull her hair. Her eyes would burn and she would moan, and she would let him treat her like the whore that she was. The thoughts frightened him, made him hate himself. If Cosette knew, dear God, the sheer filth of his thoughts would kill her.

Jean-Claude was so lost in thought he hardly noticed when he bumped into the tall blonde man. It wasn't until the man apologized that Jean-Claude recognized him, and he felt his stomach clench. Katarina's husband was standing before him, staring at him blankly. He was dirty, and carried carpenters' tools slung over his shoulder.

"What are you doing here?" demanded Jean-Claude.

"Excuse me?"

"If Katarina sent you here to beg for money, you can forget about it," said Jean-Claude. He felt anger and hate rising up within him, and he cursed himself for seeking out his mother and sister. They had probably heard of his marriage to Cosette, had probably known that he'd finally inherited his late father's money. They probably wanted some, if not all, of it. They were Gypsies; greedy, dishonest Gypsies.

"No," said Giovanni. "I'm not here for your money."

"Then why are you here?"

"That's none of your business."

"As Captain of the Guard, it is my business," said Jean-Claude, "now tell me why you are here or I'll have you arrested."

"I'm here to visit someone," said Giovanni. He was glaring now, his blue eyes full of anger.

"Who?"

"My grandmother, if you must know."

"And where's Katarina?"

"She's in Lyon," said Giovanni. "She couldn't travel with the babies."

"You just left her?"

Giovanni squirmed uncomfortably. "I was told I could make some money here," he said.

"You aren't getting any from me – "

"I don't want your money," said Giovanni, spitting the words out. They were filled with the same hate and bitterness that lurked in his blue eyes. "I wouldn't want it even if you offered it to me."

He left, shoving past Jean-Claude as he headed in the direction of the tavern. Jean-Claude watched him go. He was tempted to go after him; after all, he could not let a Gypsy talk to him with such impudence. He was tired, though, and had promised Cosette he'd hurry home. He found that he missed her now, longed to be in her arms. He continued walking towards the house where she waited for him, bracing himself against the cold night air.

~xXx~

"Where've you been these last few nights?"

Quasimodo shrugged. He'd been avoiding Heracles for exactly this reason; Heracles would wonder where he'd been. He wasn't ashamed of being with Frieda. He wished he could tell the whole world that he loved her. She'd asked him not to tell her brother, Hans, and Quasimodo supposed that this was a good idea. He did not want any awkwardness or unpleasantness between himself and Hans. It would complicate things, and would strain the beautiful feeling that he shared with Frieda.

The nights he'd spent with her had been amazing and bizarre. Making love was so unlike anything he'd ever done before. It was beautiful and strange and terrifying at the same time. Frieda had moaned, crying out in German; she'd guided his hands, letting him touch her. Her body was Heaven in every sense of the word. The freckles on her skin were like stars, her shining red curls like a halo, her lips like salvation. They'd sat there afterwards, holding each other, panting. He'd known at that moment that she loved him and that he loved her back.

"Oh, just around." Quasimodo had never been a convincing liar. He knew that Heracles would see through the lie immediately, but he found himself hoping that Heracles wouldn't be curious enough to pursue the truth.

"Come on now, you haven't been with the rest of the roustabouts," said Heracles, grinning at him, "who's the lucky lady?"

Quasimodo sighed. Heracles would only continue to pester him if he didn't tell. "Listen, you can't tell a soul," he said, "especially not Hans."

Heracles's eyes widened. "Is it Frieda?"

"Yes."

Heracles laughed, and Quasimodo felt himself blushing. He wasn't sure if he was embarrassed or angry. Why on earth was Heracles laughing at him? Frieda was beautiful and wonderful and kind, and she loved him. What did Heracles have to laugh about? "You're secret's safe with me," he said.

Quasimodo glared at him. "You don't have to laugh."

"Look, I didn't mean it like that – "

"Oh yes, I know, it's hilarious. The hunchback falls for the legless woman – freaks all stick together, right?"

"No! No, it isn't that at all!" Heracles looked genuinely hurt, and Quasimodo wondered if he'd gone too far.

"Then what is it?"

"It's Hans," said Heracles, "you have nothing to worry about, you know. Hans would love to have you for a brother-in-law – "

"Oh, listen, Frieda and I aren't – I mean, we haven't discussed – well, Frieda asked me not to tell Hans…"

"He is a bit too protective of her," said Heracles. "You've heard him. It's always 'Frieda, use the cart I made you,' 'Frieda, you should be resting.' But he likes you well enough, and it isn't just because you earn him money." He hefted one of his great weights, balancing it on his shoulder. "He knows you're a good man. Any woman would be lucky to have you."

"Talking about yourself again, Heracles?" Quasimodo turned around. Frieda was coming towards them, smiling. He hoped that she hadn't overheard their entire conversation.

"No," said Heracles. He reached down, picking up another weight. "I was talking about your lover here."

Quasimodo felt his face grow warm and knew that it was crimson. He glanced at Frieda, hoping she wouldn't be furious with him. She looked up at him, still smiling wryly, and tugged on his pant leg. He picked her up, and she put her arms around his neck. "Well, if you told Heracles, then the whole circus will know in five minutes," she said, kissing his cheek. "He's a terrible gossip."

"That's not true!"

"Oh, don't deny it, Heracles," laughed Frieda. "You love to talk about other people almost as much as you love to talk about yourself."

Heracles set the weights down. "I suppose you're right," he said, smiling. He stretched his arms, then lifted the weights again, balancing one on each shoulder. He turned, moving carefully towards the main tent. "I'll see you two later," he called, "oh, and Quasimodo – don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

Frieda was laughing again, and though he loved hearing her laugh, Quasimodo still felt the embarrassment and wished he could stop blushing. If Frieda wasn't embarrassed, then he shouldn't be either. He looked at her, smiling, and kissed her forehead.


	16. Still 1505, Part XI

STILL 1505…

The loveliness of the day undoubtedly added to the horror and agony that the events of it had inflicted. Jean-Claude would remember the sunshine and warmth with perfect clarity; perhaps if it had rained, perhaps if the weather had been foul, it would not have happened. These thoughts would plague him much later in life, though. In the heat of the moment, the weather barely mattered.

He loved walking with Cosette, and the sunshine had encouraged the two of them to leave their home. They strolled together, hand in hand (they were married, after all, it was acceptable for Jean-Claude to hold his wife's hand in public). Cosette looked beautiful despite the bulge in her stomach from her pregnancy. She was wearing the necklace he'd given her, the one that had belonged to his mother. The sunlight caught the pearls, making them glitter.

They walked through the marketplace. It was abnormally crowded; the warmth and sunshine had seemingly driven everyone outdoors. People were chattering and laughing as they bought goods from the grocers. The Gypsy girl was in her usual spot, dancing, and a crowd had gathered around her.

People would later tell Jean-Claude that it was lucky the marketplace had been so crowded; after all, there had been no shortage of help when Cosette had fallen to her knees, screaming in agony.

"Jean-Claude…" She let go of his hand, gripping her belly. "Jean-Claude, it hurts…"

In hindsight, they were extraordinarily lucky. Someone with a reasonable amount of intelligence had run to fetch a doctor in time to save Cosette. The baby had not been so lucky. What Jean-Claude would remember most from the day was the intense feeling of impotence that had engulfed him. He knelt beside Cosette, holding her, trying in vain to think of something, anything, he could do to stop the blood that was beginning to gush from her. She looked at him, tears streaming from her blue eyes, begging him to help her, and he could do nothing.

The doctor came quickly, shoving through the thick knot of people that had formed around them. He lifted Cosette, pulling her from Jean-Claude's arms, and brought her into the nearby bakery. Jean-Claude followed, stumbling blindly, not noticing the blood that covered his hands. He held Cosette's hands and watched as the doctor commandeered the back room of the bakery. He set Cosette down on a table, knocking loaves of bread aside, and set to work immediately.

The baker would later tell Jean-Claude that Cosette had been extremely lucky. "Her guardian angel did not let her down," he said. Jean-Claude wondered, though, how lucky she'd really been. She lay sobbing on the table, her dress smeared with drying blood, while the doctor stared down at the wet, bloody, misshapen thing in his hands and shook his head. Cosette had only been four months pregnant; the thing in the doctor's hands certainly didn't look like a baby. Jean-Claude stared down at it, willing himself to see a baby instead of a mass of blood and flesh.

The sun was still shining brightly when he emerged from the bakery with Cosette in his arms. The crowd that had been so eager to help (or at least watch Cosette's agony) had vanished. A new crowd had formed across the way; they were watching something, and Jean-Claude could hear the tell-tale bells jingling and knew it was the Gypsy girl. He summoned a carriage, listening to the jingling bells, realizing that they had been there the entire time. He looked at her now, barely noticing that the doctor had taken Cosette from his arms and was climbing into the carriage with her.

The Gypsy girl had been here the entire time, dancing. In fact, she'd looked directly at him just before Cosette had cried out in pain. She hadn't even noticed or reacted to Cosette's screaming or the crowd of worried people. She was still smiling, in fact. It was like she didn't care. It was like she'd known it would happen, like she'd made it happen.

~xXx~

The sun was shining and the crowds in the marketplace were thick. Theresa barely had enough space to dance, but she twirled anyway. Good weather always brought out crowds, and big crowds tended to pay well. The sound of people chattering mixed in with the ringing of the bells on her sash; it was all that she noticed until the crowd suddenly parted, revealing a towering figure covered in blood staring directly at her.

She stopped and stood still, too frightened and confused to move. The blood-smeared figure approached her, and she recognized him as the Captain of the Guard. She stared at the blood on his hands and felt her heart rate quicken unpleasantly. Had something happened to Giovanni? Was he hurt? Was he dying? Had there been a horrific accident?

"Witch!" The Captain of the Guard was pointing at her now, "you killed my son!" All Theresa could do was shake her head mutely. The Captain stepped towards her, and she was dimly aware of people staring at her, murmuring and whispering. She backed away from him. "I saw what you did to my wife," the Captain continued, "I saw you cast a spell on her, and now my son is dead."

"No," said Theresa. Her own voice sounded foreign; she couldn't recognize it as her own. "No, I didn't – "

"You will burn for what you've done, witch!"

The crowd was backing away from her now, people whispering and pointing, the word 'witch' flowing from their mouths. In an instant, Theresa saw the gap between her and the Captain widen, saw people move aside, and she fled. Her feet seemed to move on their own accord, and she found people rushing out of her way, afraid to touch her or even look at her. She heard the Captain screaming after her, heard the sound of his feet on the pavement.

Notre Dame was close to the marketplace, and the moment it came into view, Theresa pushed herself to run faster. Notre Dame was safe. It was the one place no one could hurt her, the one place God would truly protect her, and she found herself reaching for it as she ran. Her lungs burned; it was as though air simply wouldn't fill them. She scrambled up the steps of the cathedral, tripping and landing hard on her knees. She pulled herself up, not realizing that one of her shoes had come off. She glanced over her shoulder. The Captain of the Guard was still chasing her, though he was now accompanied by several of his comrades. She could see René among the men chasing her, and she had to force herself to get to her feet and keep running. She had to make it into the cathedral in order to claim sanctuary.

She burst through the door and did not realize that she'd collided with a priest until after she'd hit the floor. She lay there, staring up at the priest who was reaching for her, trying to help her to her feet. "Sanctuary," she gasped, forcing the word out. Her lungs still ached, and it felt as though her heart would explode. "Please, sanctuary."

~xXx~

He wasn't even certain of who they were chasing until they reached the cathedral, and seeing that it was Theresa made his blood run cold. René felt himself slow; later, he would wonder if he'd done this on purpose, if he'd let her escape. He certainly could have made it up the steps of the cathedral and grabbed her before she made it inside. He looked at Jean-Claude now.

Jean-Claude's clothes were covered in blood and his eyes blazed with an anger that René had never seen before. He glared at the cathedral, as though he could bring it crashing down merely by looking at it. He marched up the steps, shoving the door open even though Theresa had probably claimed sanctuary and there was nothing anyone could do. René followed him.

"Jean-Claude," he said, "what's happened? Whose blood is that?"

"That witch killed my son," said Jean-Claude. "She cast a spell on Cosette. She murdered our son, and now she is hiding in a cathedral."

Notre Dame was always quiet. The moment René entered the church, all he could hear was Theresa's heavy panting. She was sitting on the floor, her black hair tangled, her narrow shoulders heaving. A priest was kneeling before her, his hand on her shoulder, saying something in hushed, comforting tones.

"Give her to me," said Jean-Claude, approaching the priest. He reached for Theresa. His hand was covered with dried blood. "She is a witch and is under arrest for her crimes."

Theresa stared up at him, shaking her head, tears streaming from her dark eyes. "She has claimed sanctuary," said the priest, rising and stepping between Jean-Claude and Theresa. "And you know you cannot overturn that, Captain."

"She cast a spell on my wife and murdered my son!" shouted Jean-Claude, "she should burn at the stake for her crimes!"

"Please, I didn't do anything!"

"So long as she remains in this church, you cannot do anything to her."

René stared at Theresa. What had happened to Cosette? Could Theresa really have done such a vile thing? Could she have murdered an unborn child? Was that even possible? And why? Even if she could do it, why on earth would she? She still had not caught her breath, and now René noticed that one of her shoes was missing. As per usual, her blouse did not cover her shoulders, and it had slipped during her flight. She seemed too frazzled and frightened to notice that her brassiere was showing, and René felt guilty for having stared at the plain white fabric for so long.

"Put a guard at every door," said Jean-Claude, turning to him now.

"What?"

"She has to leave at some point, and when she does, I will arrest her." Jean-Claude glanced back at Theresa now, his eyes full of fury. "You can't hide in here forever, witch," he said, "you'll have to eat sooner or later."

He turned and stormed out of the cathedral, leaving a bloody handprint on the door as he shoved it open. René followed him, watching as he addressed the other guards, pointing and ordering them to watch the doors of Notre Dame.

"Jean-Claude, what happened?" he asked, grabbing Jean-Claude's arm.

"Cosette and I…we were in the marketplace," said Jean-Claude. He suddenly looked tired, as if all the energy had been sucked out of him. "That witch was there too. She was dancing, like she always is. She looked at me, looked directly at me, and then…then Cosette was…crying and bleeding, and my baby is dead…" for a moment, Jean-Claude looked as though he would cry. "Someone summoned a doctor, but he couldn't…he couldn't save my son…" he shook his head, forcing his sorrow back, letting the anger return to his eyes, "that witch killed my son…I will not rest until she's executed for her crimes."

"Where – where's Cosette?"

"Home. I sent her home with the doctor…"

"Go to her," said René. "I'll make sure the cathedral's guarded."

Jean-Claude nodded mutely, then turned and left. His steps were shaky, as though he would collapse at any moment. René watched him go, then turned to the rest of the guards. They took their places quickly, surrounding the cathedral.

Could Theresa commit such an atrocity? True, Gypsies lied and stole and murdered, but René had never thought that Theresa would do any of those things. She'd seemed so sweet and pretty. Perhaps she'd fooled him. Perhaps she was a witch powerful enough to kill an unborn child. Still, why would she do it? What purpose could ending an innocent life have? René stared at the cathedral, thinking of Theresa sitting on the floor, staring helplessly up at Jean-Claude. Perhaps she was a witch. Perhaps she had cast a spell on Cosette; perhaps she'd cast one on René, bewitching him so he wouldn't think her guilty.

The thought bothered René, but he nodded and forced himself to agree with it. Theresa was a Gypsy, after all; she was born in sin, and she'd die in it. She was bound to lead a wicked life. She probably was a witch, hell bent on destruction and the sorrow of others. If she had indeed killed Jean-Claude's baby, she would pay for it.

~xXx~

Theresa was not at the inn when he returned, and this frightened him. The innkeeper hadn't seen her all day. She'd left in the morning and simply never returned. Giovanni was terrified. He'd sworn to protect Theresa, and now she was missing. He bolted through the streets, calling for her, desperately searching and finding nothing.

He was out of breath and exhausted by the time he reached Notre Dame. He stopped, staring at the great cathedral, noticing for the first time that armed guards were standing at every door. He had never seen guards outside of Notre Dame before. Giovanni wracked his brain; was it some holy day he hadn't heard of? Had something happened in the cathedral? Had something happened to Theresa?

He approached the cathedral, climbing the steps. "What's your business?" demanded one of the guards, stepping in front of the door and blocking his path.

"I need to confess," said Giovanni. "Is…did something happen to the church?"

"There's a witch hiding in there," said the guard, stepping out of his way. "She's claimed sanctuary, but she can't stay in there forever."

Giovanni entered the cathedral, closing the door behind him. He glanced around. The cathedral was mostly empty; a handful of people were kneeling in prayer. Giovanni stepped further into the cathedral, remembering how awestruck Theresa had been when she'd first entered it. She'd been especially drawn to the statues, staring at them as if she'd expected them to move. Perhaps she was in here. Perhaps she was looking at the statues and had lost track of time. Giovanni wandered along, his eyes scanning the alcoves where the statues stood.

Theresa was sitting on the floor near a statue of the Virgin Mary. Giovanni did not feel relief wash over him, though, as he approached her. She was hugging her knees, crying into them. One of her feet was bare, and the hem of her skirt was spattered with mud. Her head snapped up when she heard him approach, and she leapt to her feet, rushing to him and throwing her arms around his waist.

"Giovanni! Oh thank God you're here!"

"Theresa, what's happened?" The guard's words came spilling back into his mind, and Giovanni felt his stomach clench. _There's a witch hiding in there. She's claimed sanctuary, but she can't stay in there forever._ Oh God, was Theresa the witch he'd been talking about? Had she done something, or been accused of doing something? What could she possibly have done? What could be so horrid, so atrocious, that they would post guards at the cathedral to arrest her the moment she left it?

"I don't know!" she sobbed, "everything was normal, and then they were calling me a witch and chasing me! The Captain, he said I killed a baby, but I swear to you, I swear I didn't do anything!"

"I – I know," he said. Katarina's brother was involved with this? Well, naturally, as Captain of the Guard, he'd have been the one to order the cathedral surrounded. "I know you didn't do anything, but…but what happened?"

"I was dancing," she said. Her voice was thin and ragged, and she looked up at him now, her eyes full of fear. "And all of a sudden, the Captain came up to me and started yelling that I'd killed his son. He told everyone I was a witch and cast a spell, and then he…he chased me and I ran here, and…and they won't let me leave! They'll kill me – the Captain wants me to burn at the stake! I swear I didn't do anything!"

He felt his grip on her tightening, and found himself wishing that he'd sent her back to Lyon. Perhaps he could talk to Katarina's brother, make him see sense. Theresa wasn't a witch, and she certainly couldn't kill anyone. Jean-Claude was probably distressed, he probably couldn't think clearly. The baby had died and he'd seen Theresa and assumed that she was a witch because of her Gypsy heritage. Surely Giovanni could talk to him, make him see reason; after all, witches weren't real. They were the figments of fairy tales, designed solely to frighten children. Theresa wasn't one.

And even if he couldn't talk to Jean-Claude, he could talk to his grandmother. She was a wealthy woman, she held a great deal of influence. If she could convince Jean-Claude that he'd made a mistake, then Theresa could go free. Giovanni would send her back to Lyon, and the whole unpleasant incident would be over. Oh, his grandmother did not have a high opinion of Theresa, but she didn't think her a witch. Surely his grandmother would listen to him, would believe him.

"Listen," said Giovanni, stroking Theresa's hair. "I'm going to go tell my grandmother what's happened. Perhaps she can help you."

Theresa was shaking her head. "Please don't leave."

"I'll be right back," said Giovanni. "You're perfectly safe in here. And besides, you must be hungry." She nodded. "I'll go see my grandmother, then I'll come back with some food."

"All right."

He kissed her forehead. "I'll be back soon."


	17. Still 1505, Part XII

STILL 1505…

"Dear boy, if Theresa has committed a crime, then I will not help her. I prefer to remain out of the affairs of Gypsies and criminals."

"But Grandmother, she hasn't done anything! The Captain of the Guard made a false accusation, and now she's trapped in Notre Dame!"

His grandmother only shook her head, and Giovanni felt his heart sink. Helplessness and desperation engulfed him; it felt as though he was drowning. "Please," he said, "please, she's just a girl. She hasn't done anything wrong, and they're threatening to execute her – "

"Dear boy, how do you know she hasn't done anything? Were you with her in the marketplace? Did you see what happened?" Giovanni shook his head. "The Captain of the Guard would not have accused her falsely. He saw what she did and ordered her arrest. The fact that she fled from him only proves her guilt."

"No," he said, "she ran because she was frightened, because he was threatening her. She could never kill anyone – "

"She's a Gypsy, dear boy, surely you know what they're like. They lie and steal and murder. It's what they do. You've spent your whole life with them, surely you must know this."

"That isn't true," he said, rising and glaring at her now. She had made it perfectly clear that she wouldn't help him or Theresa, and he found that he didn't care. All he wanted to do was tell her exactly what had been sitting in the back of his throat ever since he'd first met her. "You're wrong. Gypsies are not liars and thieves. We're good people."

"You aren't a Gypsy, Giovanni – "

"Yes, I am. My father was a Gypsy, and I'm not ashamed of it." She stared at him, and he could see the disapproval in her eyes. He didn't care. "You've insulted my entire family, and you don't even know them. My aunt and uncle took care of me when no one else would. I don't care that they're Gypsies. My cousin is a good girl. She isn't a witch, and she didn't kill anyone."

She merely stared at him, refusing to speak. He turned away from her, heading towards the door. "Where are you going, Giovanni?" she demanded.

"If you won't help Theresa, I'll find someone who will," he said, glancing back over his shoulder at her. "I'm leaving Lyon the minute I've proven her innocence."

"What of our agreement?"

"I don't need anything from you," he said, shoving the door open and storming from the room. He let it slam behind him, knowing that she hated the sound of slamming doors. He didn't care. True, he did need money, he was dirt poor and desperate, but he didn't need _her_ money. He and Katarina could manage on their own; he would find a way to provide for her and their children. He would never accept his grandmother's money.

He headed back towards Notre Dame and was not surprised to see Jean-Claude there. Giovanni took a deep breath and approached him. Jean-Claude was younger than he, but he wielded a considerable amount of power. He held a position that came with authority. Still, perhaps Giovanni could talk to him and make him see reason. Perhaps he could make him see that Theresa hadn't done anything wrong, that she wasn't a witch, that she was innocent.

"I need to talk to you," he said.

"I've already told you, money is out of the question."

"It isn't about that," said Giovanni. "It's about my cousin."

"I don't know who – "

Giovanni pointed to the cathedral. "The girl in the church, the one you've accused of witchcraft, is my cousin Theresa," he said. Jean-Claude stared at him, and Giovanni suddenly found himself wishing he hadn't spoken at all. What if Jean-Claude arrested him? He had nowhere to flee to; Jean-Claude was standing between him and the cathedral.

"That witch is your cousin?"

"She isn't a witch," said Giovanni, holding his hands up, trying to sound calm. "There's been a mistake – "

"She killed my son!"

"No, no, she didn't do anything – "

Jean-Claude drew his sword, brandishing it threateningly. Giovanni had a knife in his belt, but it wouldn't do any good against a sword. The other soldiers stared at him, reaching for their weapons, and he backed away. "Listen," he said, "please listen to me, she's innocent – "

"Get out of my sight," hissed Jean-Claude. "That witch is guilty, and I will personally be the one to light the fire when she burns at the stake – "

"Please – "

"Do you want to be executed alongside her?" Jean-Claude stepped towards him, nearly shoving him down the steps. "Arrest him if he tries to enter the cathedral," he shouted, turning to the rest of the guards. Giovanni stared at them helplessly, wishing that he'd never left the cathedral, that he'd never left Lyon for that matter.

~xXx~

Waiting for Giovanni to return was agonizing. She hadn't realized just how hungry she was until he'd mentioned food. She'd been sitting in the cathedral for the entire day and hadn't eaten a thing since breakfast. Theresa stared at the door, hoping that it would open and that Giovanni would enter with a sack full of food and good news. Perhaps his grandmother would help her. Perhaps she could convince the guards that Theresa was innocent.

She leapt to her feet when the door did open, but immediately darted back into the shadows when she saw René. He had once flirted with her, called her pretty, but that was over and done with. He was a soldier. He was here to harass or arrest her. Theresa ducked into the alcove, squeezing herself behind the statue of the Virgin Mary. She knew it was sacrilegious to touch one of these statues, but perhaps God would forgive her this once.

"Theresa?" René was close to her hiding place, though she couldn't see him. She shut her eyes, praying he'd leave. "Theresa?"

His voice sounded too close for comfort, and she opened her eyes. He was staring at her, puzzled. She slid further back into the alcove, realizing that she was essentially trapped. He was too big to fit behind the statue; he couldn't possibly grab her. "Please leave," she said, painfully aware of how thin and helpless her voice sounded.

"I…I found this outside." He held up her shoe. He was holding it out of her reach, tempting her to come out of the alcove. Her foot was cold, and she wanted her shoe back. "Listen, I just want to ask you a few questions…please come out?"

She shook her head. It did not occur to her that no soldier had ever said 'please' to her before. "Go away," she said, "please leave me alone."

"No," he said firmly. "I swear, I can't do anything to you while you're in this church, but I need to ask you some questions."

She stared at him, her eyes wandering from the shoe he was holding to his face. He looked sincere enough, but looks were nothing to go by. Anyone could look sincere without meaning it. He was right, though. He couldn't arrest her as long as she was in the cathedral. She slowly made her way out of the alcove, stepping into the dim light. He stepped back, giving her space, and handed her the shoe. Theresa took it, staring down at the scuffed black fabric. She sat down, putting it on her foot, and was surprised when René sat down beside her.

"What happened?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said. "I was dancing, and then the Captain was there, and he was covered in blood. He was saying that I was a witch, that I cast a spell on his wife and killed their baby…"

"Did you?"

She stared at him, offended that he would even think such a thing. His question should not have surprised her. After all, he was a soldier, trained to think that all Gypsies were evil beings. He saw her as a harlot or an agent of the Devil, nothing else. "No," she said.

"Then why did you run?"

"I was scared."

"Are you a witch?"

She found anger rising within her and wished that she hadn't come out of her hiding place. His questions bothered and offended her. She wished that she could slap him; this was a holy place, though, and she could not commit an act of violence within it. Besides, if she did slap him, what would stop him from dragging her outside and arresting her? "No," she said. "Witches aren't real. They're just stories to frighten children."

"Who told you that?"

"My father."

"And how does he know?"

"He's a storyteller," she said, "he knows enough about fiction to know it when he hears it. Besides, if I was a witch, I wouldn't be able to enter a church, would I?"

He shrugged. "Well…perhaps your magic…"

"And if I was a witch, wouldn't I have flown away on a broom? Wouldn't I have summoned demons and devils up to help me?"

"I suppose so." He looked mildly ashamed, and she found this satisfying. Knowing that she'd bested a soldier made her feel almost happy, though she couldn't hang onto the feeling. René was staring at her, and she couldn't read his emotions. He looked bewildered and ashamed and amused at the same time. "But Jean-Claude wouldn't accuse you if you were innocent."

"He's made a mistake," she said. There was no proof of her guilt, but there was no proof of her innocence either. It was merely the Captain's word against hers, and he was the one that everyone would believe. She couldn't do anything unless he recanted, and he would never do that. She was a Gypsy, and he was certain of her guilt.

"Can…can you do me a favor?" she asked. René looked at her and nodded. "I came to Paris with my cousin, Giovanni. He went out to talk to someone who he thought could help me, but that was hours ago…do you think you can find him? Just to make sure he's all right?"

"He was outside earlier," said René. "He was talking to Jean-Claude about you, trying to tell him you were innocent."

Her heart sank. What if Giovanni had been arrested? What if he'd been killed? If something had happened to him, it would be her fault. If he'd been arrested, then surely she would have to give her life for his. The thought frightened her. She didn't want to burn at the stake, she didn't want to die such a horrific death. But she couldn't let Giovanni, who had done nothing wrong, die in her stead. What would happen to Katarina and their children? Who would care for them if Giovanni was dead?

René seemed to sense her fear. "Nothing's happened to him," he said quickly. "He's been barred from the cathedral. He'll be arrested if he tries to enter it, but he's perfectly safe."

She did not feel the relief that she should have. If Giovanni couldn't enter the cathedral, he couldn't come to help her. He couldn't bring her any food. _You can't hide in here forever, witch. You'll have to eat sooner or later._ She was going to die, and it would be slow and painful no matter what she did. If she left the church, she would be burned at the stake. If she didn't, she'd starve to death. The thought of dying frightened her, and she felt tears prickling at her eyes. She'd spent most of the day crying, and was stunned to find that she still had tears left to shed.

"Listen, you'll be fine," said René. His voice was hurried and uncertain, as though he could see her terror and didn't know what to do to ease it. "You're perfectly safe in here – "

"Please leave me alone," she whispered, looking away from him. She did not want to see or hear him. His words were empty and hollow; he didn't really care about her. He was a soldier, and it was his duty to see that she was executed for a crime she hadn't committed. She buried her face in her hands, barely realizing he had left.

~xXx~

He was not entirely sure what he would say to Theresa's cousin when he found him. It was well after midnight when René was finally relieved of his duty, and he headed towards the inn where Theresa had said she was staying. He did not know Giovanni's last name, but he had a unique description. The innkeeper remembered the blonde man who was renting a room with a young Gypsy girl, and once he saw that René was a soldier, he showed him where it was without question.

René knocked on the door, and it opened immediately despite the lateness of the hour. The man standing before him was tall and blonde and looked thoroughly exhausted. His blue eyes were large and bloodshot, and he glared at René upon seeing the soldier's uniform. This was the man who'd come by the cathedral, the one Jean-Claude had driven away. He looked older than Jean-Claude and René, though not by much, and he looked nothing at all like Theresa.

"Are you Giovanni? Theresa's cousin?"

"What do you want?"

René paused, realizing that he had no idea why he was even here. Theresa had mentioned her cousin, had mentioned being worried about him. René supposed that he was here to assuage her fears, to make sure that her cousin was all right. "I just wanted to tell you that Theresa is fine," he said. "She's perfectly safe – "

"She's being held prisoner for a crime she didn't commit."

"My Captain would not have accused her if he didn't have proof – "

"And what is his proof?" demanded Giovanni, "the fact that she's a Gypsy?"

"Listen, your people are known for witchcraft – "

Giovanni rolled his eyes and slammed the door. René stared at it blankly, almost unable to comprehend what had just happened. Had a Gypsy really just slammed a door in his face? He had never been treated so rudely in his whole life, and he was suddenly tempted to kick the door in and arrest Giovanni. He stepped back, bracing himself; Giovanni had undoubtedly locked the door, but a cheap, flimsy lock would not keep René out.

René stared at the door, unable to move. Could he really arrest Giovanni for this? It was so minor, really, and understandable. His cousin had just been accused of a heinous crime, she was essentially being held prisoner in a cathedral, and his emotions were probably running too high for him to think clearly. René was certain he'd have a similar reaction if he was in Giovanni's place. He knocked on the door again.

"What do you want?" Giovanni shouted from behind the door.

René groaned inwardly. Giovanni was making this difficult and embarrassing. "I just wanted to tell you that Theresa's all right," he said, "she…she wanted you to know she was safe."

The door opened. "You talked to her?"

"Briefly," said René. "I just asked her a few questions, that's all. She told me where to find you – "

Giovanni glared. "Why would she do that?"

"She was worried about you. When you didn't come back, she thought you'd been arrested."

Giovanni sighed and nodded. "Can…will you tell her not to worry about me?" he said, refusing to meet René's eye.

"Yes."

"Thank you."

René turned and left. He heard the door close behind him, but did not look back. He left the inn, suddenly realizing just how exhausted he really was.

~xXx~

He only went home because everyone else was insisting upon it. He was more than surprised to find Cosette still awake, and all he could do was stare at her. She was sitting up in bed; she'd been reading by candlelight, and was now looking at him. She looked pale and unnaturally thin. She'd been unable to eat anything since the baby's death. Jean-Claude pulled his uniform off and went to her, sliding beneath the blanket beside her.

"Why are you still awake?" he asked.

"I can't sleep without you," she said, placing the book on her nightstand and moving closer to him. "I'm so sorry for what happened – "

"It isn't your doing," he said, wrapping his arms around her. Her eyes were red-rimmed, as though she'd been crying, and her face was stained with the tracks of her tears. He kissed her cheek, wishing he could undo all of her pain. "That witch did this to you, and she will die for it."

Cosette nodded, snuggling closer to him, resting her head against his chest. He stroked her hair, running his fingers through her auburn curls. She was so beautiful, so pure and good; why had God allowed her to suffer so? Why had this happened to Cosette of all women? Why did God punish the good and allow the evil to flourish? Why was God allowing that filthy Gypsy witch refuge in Notre Dame?

Jean-Claude pushed the thoughts from his mind. The Gypsy couldn't hide in there forever. She would have to leave sooner or later, and he was ready for her. He saw her now in his mind's eye, not dancing and smiling, but tied to the stake, screaming as the flames consumed her wicked body. She would beg him for mercy, she would recant and apologize for what she'd done, but nothing she could ever do would atone for the pain she'd inflicted upon Cosette. Jean-Claude would watch her burn.

He looked down at Cosette now. She had fallen asleep in his arms, and he turned to the candle and blew it out. He closed his eyes. The image of the Gypsy girl writhing and screaming as flames ravaged her was strangely comforting, and it eased him into sleep.


	18. Still 1505, Part XIII

STILL 1505…

He knew that the letter wouldn't reach his uncle right away. It would take a week, minimum. Still, he had no other options. He couldn't very well leave Theresa and go to Lyon to fetch help; that would only take longer. He honestly didn't know if his aunt and uncle even _could_ help, but they had every right to know what was happening.

Giovanni waited at the crossroads for well over an hour. He knew that the foreman would not be happy, that he would probably be fired, but he didn't care. Work was not important, had never been. Theresa and her safety was what mattered the most. Once she was safe and sound, they would leave Paris and never look back.

He was more than relieved when a merchant came by with a wagon full of goods. The merchant was on his way to Lyon, and he agreed to take Giovanni's letter and deliver it. Giovanni watched as he rode out of sight, wishing that he could feel a bit more relieved.

~xXx~

They were moving through France, heading back towards Lyon, and Quasimodo found that he wasn't sure how he felt. The idea of seeing Esmerelda again was discomforting. What if he saw her and fell in love with her again? What if this happened and then Frieda found out? She'd be furious and crushed, and Quasimodo couldn't bear the thought of hurting her like that. She was so sweet and kind; she would never hurt him.

"I'm not sure if I want to go back through Lyon," he said.

"Well, Heracles is looking forward to it," said Frieda.

"He just wants to see Rosalie again."

"Yes, but he misses everyone else, too. Surely you miss them?"

"Well, yes, I do…it's just…I don't know…"

"Is it Esmerelda?"

Quasimodo had never mentioned Esmerelda to Frieda, and he stared at her now. She reached into one of her pockets and pulled out a familiar-looking pouch on a string. Quasimodo had stopped carrying the little carving of Esmerelda everywhere with him. He stared at it, wondering how Frieda had gotten hold of it.

"It's a lovely figurine," she said, opening the pouch and pulling out the little wooden figure. "It does look just like her."

"It – it was a long time ago, Frieda," he said quickly, "and nothing ever happened between us – she loves Phoebus, always has – "

"Quasimodo, I don't care," she said. She put the figure down on the table and took hold of his hands. "I know you used to love her, but I don't care."

"You…you don't?"

She shook her head. "I've been in love before," she said. "I used to love Heracles."

"What?" The idea of Frieda with Heracles, the idea of him touching her and kissing her, made Quasimodo even more uncomfortable. Heracles, who was tall and handsome and claimed to have been with half the women in Europe – Heracles wasn't someone Frieda would want. He was too cocky, too full of himself. How could she have fallen for someone like that?

"It didn't work out," she said, as if reading his mind, "and even though I lost a lover, I gained a good friend." She touched Quasimodo's face, and he felt himself leaning into her hand despite his disgust. "You're different, Quasimodo. You're…you're both a lover and a friend."

"I am?"

She nodded. "And I hope that I'm the same to you."

"You are," he said, touching her hand. He lifted her with his free hand, scooping her up into his arms. He barely noticed when she dropped the little figure of Esmerelda. "Frieda, you mean everything to me."

She kissed him. "I love you."

"I love you too."

~xXx~

He did not want to leave Cosette alone, but he had no other options. True, the cathedral was heavily guarded, but he wanted to be the one to arrest the Gypsy witch. He wanted to be the one to fasten the shackles to her narrow wrists, to drag her into a dungeon and hurl her to the ground. He wanted to be the one to interrogate her, to make her confess to her crimes. He would make her scream as much as Cosette had when she'd lost the baby.

Cosette was standing at her wardrobe, her back to him as she fastened the buttons on her dress. Jean-Claude watched her. Her fingers were thin and delicate, working the buttons with ease. He pulled on his uniform and went to her, placing his hands on her waist as he'd done so many times before. She turned to him; she had washed the tearstains from her face. For a moment, it felt like an ordinary day.

"I love you," he said, stroking her hair, letting his fingertips trail along her cheek. He thought of their wedding night, of the way he'd held her and kissed her. God, it had been so beautiful. Could that beauty ever be regained? Had the baby's death forever marred it?

"And I you," she said, turning and kissing his hand.

He let go of her reluctantly. He did not want to leave her side, not even for an instant, but he knew that he couldn't be in two places at once. He would go to Notre Dame and he would wait for the Gypsy witch to leave. He would arrest her, and her execution would undo the curse she'd cast. Once she was dead, the beautiful, loving feeling that he and Cosette shared could be regained.

~xXx~

She did not remember falling asleep, but the sound of footsteps on the floor woke her. Theresa sat up, rubbing her eyes, looking around groggily. For a brief instant, she had forgotten where she was, and she wondered why she was not in her bed at the inn. She looked up at the statue that towered over her; Virgin Mary, holding the baby Jesus in her arms, stared down at her calmly. Theresa stared up at the statue, suddenly remembering where she was and why she was there.

"Hello."

She turned, startled by the voice. René was standing before her, glancing nervously over his shoulder, as though he was about to do something wrong. Theresa scrambled to her feet, smoothing the wrinkles out of her skirt. "What do you want?" she asked. A sharp, stabbing pain flared up in her throat. She remembered that she'd spent most of the previous night crying, and now wondered if her sobs were the cause of the pain.

René held out his hand. He was holding an orange. Her stomach rumbled, and the incessant hunger she'd felt since the previous night came back almost instantly. Theresa grabbed the orange, tearing at the peel with her nails. She bit into it, attacking it ravenously. The juice was smearing her hands, dribbling down her chin and onto her blouse, but she didn't care. The orange tasted so wonderful, so amazing.

"You can't tell anyone about this," said René.

Theresa stared at him, suddenly realizing what he had done. He had given her food even though it was forbidden. He would want something in return; he was a soldier, after all. Soldiers always wanted one thing from women, and they would do anything to get it. He knew that she had no money. She hadn't thought to grab the little purple hat full of coins when she'd fled the marketplace. It would not even be in the marketplace. Someone had undoubtedly picked it up. She had nothing to give him, and he knew this.

She glanced down at her wrists now, noticing the way her bracelets glinted in the light. She had always been told that they were made of real gold, and surely her parents wouldn't lie about this. She couldn't remember the last time she'd taken them off. She pulled at one, wincing as it scraped her hand. She held it out, offering it to René. "Here," she said. "I don't have any money, but it's made of real gold – "

"No, I can't – "

"I'm not giving myself to you," she said. "If – if that's what you want, then get out of here and take your food with you."

"No, no, of course not! I'd never – "

"Then what do you want?"

He shook his head. "Nothing."

"Why would you bring me food, when you know you aren't supposed to, if you don't want something in return?"

"Well, I suppose there is one thing I'd like…" She couldn't bring herself to reply. She'd already eaten half of the orange. He knew this, of course, and would use it to get what he wanted from her. He had practically bought her for half of an orange. Theresa glared at him, struggling not to cry. "I'd like your companionship, I suppose."

She shook her head. "No," she said. "No. I will never – "

"That isn't what I meant!" he said, stepping away from her. "That isn't what I meant at all! I want to talk to you, that's all."

She stared at him, then at the remnants of the orange she held in her hand. "You'll come by and give me food if I talk to you?"

"Yes."

"About what?"

He shrugged. "Anything," he said, "you said your father was a storyteller, surely you must know some of his stories…"

"I know them all."

René smiled at her, then sat down. "I have an hour," he said, motioning for her to sit across from him. She sat, sliding back, keeping her distance from him. "And I have another orange." He reached into his satchel and pulled out an orange and a peach. Theresa found herself staring longingly at the fruit and felt ashamed. Still, if he only wanted a story in exchange for the food…that wasn't an unreasonable request. She could tell a story or two, and she certainly was hungry.

"All right," she said. "Once upon a time…"

~xXx~

Esmerelda had been avoiding her; she was very certain of this, and wondered what she'd done to warrant this treatment. Cassandra wracked her brain. She had never insulted Esmerelda, had never even thought anything bad about her. Esmerelda, after all, had selflessly saved her virtue and her life. It was not an event that Cassandra would ever forget, and she was eternally grateful to her.

She found herself wondering if this was the cause of Esmerelda's bitter silence. She had never mentioned it to Esmerelda, had never really thanked her. She had always avoided the subject. The men were all dead, the nightmare was over, everyone could lead a normal, happy life. Still, Cassandra knew that she was the reason Esmerelda had had to endure thirteen years of being married to Claude Frollo.

"Esmerelda?"

Esmerelda glanced at her, but did not look her in the eye. "Hello," she said. "Is there something you want?" Her voice was smooth and even, emotionless.

"I…never mind…it's nothing…" There was something clearly wrong, and Cassandra suddenly didn't want to get to the bottom of it. She did not want to dredge up the past, did not want to relive it, and she knew that Esmerelda felt the same way. She turned to go. She felt stupid for coming to Esmerelda in the first place.

"Cassandra, wait." She turned around, surprised that Esmerelda was actually looking at her. Her gaze made her intensely uncomfortable. "I…I know that you were the girl they brought in…"

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm so sorry for what happened – "

"Listen, it isn't your fault," said Esmerelda. "He…he would have killed everyone in that dungeon – "

"But – "

"I…why didn't you tell me sooner?"

Cassandra shrugged. "I thought you knew," she said, "I just…I didn't want to…I didn't want to bring it up…"

"Well, I understand that." Esmerelda stared at her. She smiled, "Clopin married you. You've very lucky."

"Why?" Cassandra had noticed the sudden shift in Esmerelda's tone and found bitterness rising up within her.

"Well, I mean, he's a good man…it was sweet of him to marry you – "

"You think he married me because he pitied me?" Cassandra found herself shouting, but she didn't care. She didn't care if the entire world heard her or if it offended Esmerelda. "He married me out of love!"

"I – I didn't mean – "

"No one would talk to me after it happened! No one would even look at me! Do you know what they said about me? 'Damaged goods,' that's what they said! As if my virtue was the only thing that mattered!"

"Cassandra, please, I didn't mean it like that – "

"You were there! You saw what happened and what didn't happen! You…you of all people…" She noticed the tears in Esmerelda's eyes and let her voice trail off. Angry as she was, she did not want to inflict pain upon someone who had already suffered so much. She knew that stirring up the past would only hurt the both of them.

"I'm sorry," said Esmerelda. "That isn't what I meant at all." She sighed. "Clopin is a good man. He…he's my best friend, he's like a brother to me. I just never thought he'd marry. He always said marriage was too ordinary, you know? He always said, 'what's the point of an ordinary life? What's the point of a life without adventure?' I suppose you changed his mind."

Cassandra laughed. "He really used to say that?"

Esmerelda nodded. "I wish I'd been there for your wedding. Tell me, was he nervous?"

"I suppose so," said Cassandra, "but you know what really terrified him? Getting my father's consent!" Esmerelda laughed, tossing her thick black hair. "And after he'd asked my father, my brothers came by and told him that if his intentions weren't pure, they'd kill him."

"Oh stop! They didn't!"

Cassandra nodded. "They did." Clopin had been roughly the same age as her oldest brother, Barnabas; Clopin, however, had a slender, almost stringy build, while her brothers had large, thick, muscular bodies. Their protectiveness had always irritated her to a certain extent, but it was their way of showing their love for her. After marrying Clopin, they had become less protective, interfering less and less with her. She supposed that Clopin had taken their place as her protector.

Esmerelda laughed even harder. "It's a wonder they didn't scare him away."

Cassandra could remember the exact moment Clopin had proposed to her, and it always embarrassed her to a certain extent. It had not been a romantic, thoughtful moment. It had happened in his caravan; she remembered kissing him, pressing her lips against his and closing her eyes as he took her in his arms. She remembered wanting him, the feeling of lust rising up inside of her, threatening to consume them both. She remembered his hands on her breasts, his lips against her neck, she remembered grabbing at his belt buckle, fumbling with it, remembered him suddenly pushing her hands away, looking at her. _This isn't right…I should marry you first_. His eyes had been full of an earnestness she'd never seen in anyone before, and she'd suddenly known that he loved her as much as she loved him.

~xXx~

Standing outside of the cathedral, guarding it, was extremely boring, and René found his thoughts wandering to Theresa. She certainly didn't seem like a witch. She had a certain sweetness to her, as though she'd never hurt anyone or anything. He was starting to wonder if Jean-Claude had made a mistake in accusing her. Perhaps she hadn't been the one to cause the miscarriage. Perhaps it had been someone else. The marketplace had been full of Gypsies; perhaps one of them had cast the spell and framed Theresa. She certainly didn't seem guilty. She looked so small and helpless; if she'd been the one to do it, wouldn't she be proud of herself? And if she had done it, surely the sheer darkness of the deed would prevent her from even looking at a church, let alone hiding in one.

She'd been so nervous, so frightened, standing across from him, watching him as she devoured the orange. She'd eaten it quickly, sloppily, like an animal. For an instant she'd been feral and wild, like a trapped cat. He remembered the stark fear in her eyes when he'd asked for something in return. She'd had every right to be afraid, he now realized. She'd probably been told all sorts of horror stories about soldiers, that they were cruel and ruthless, that they were all rapists. She had probably thought he would force himself on her, that he'd demand her body as payment for a piece of fruit.

The thought sickened and offended him. True, he was a soldier, and there was a certain ruthlessness to him; he showed no mercy on the battlefield. Still, to think that he would molest her in a church of all places, that he would use her hunger to blackmail her, the thought was base and perverse, and he found himself hating her for thinking it. He didn't want her to starve, did that make him a bad person? True, he was disobeying a direct order (Jean-Claude could cry treason and have him executed), but he couldn't bear the thought of her starving to death for something she had nothing to do with.

René had enjoyed talking to Theresa. She became more animated when she told stories, moving her hands and giving different voices to her characters. Her stories were unlike anything he'd ever heard before. Talking animals, brave little peasants, fearsome monsters, and beautiful princesses spewed forth from her mouth. He was amazed that her father had created all the stories himself.

"It's much better when I use puppets," she said.

"Puppets?"

She nodded. "My father's got a hundred marionettes at least," she said, "he always uses them when he tells a story."

René could imagine her thin fingers expertly manipulating the strings, making the puppet dance through the air. He found himself wondering what it would be like to hold her hand, to run his fingertips over hers. She'd smiled at him, laughed while she'd talked; she'd looked so happy. He liked seeing her when she was happy, he liked the idea that he could make her happy. He wondered now when Jean-Claude would show up. Perhaps he could convince him that he'd made a mistake. Surely someone else had caused Cosette's miscarriage, and they couldn't apprehend the guilty party if they were still focused on Theresa.


	19. Still 1505, Part XIV

STILL 1505…

The cathedral was heavily guarded from all sides. Giovanni had kept his distance when he'd circled the cathedral, taking care to stay in the shadows so that no one would see him. There was no way he could get in, and no way Theresa could get out. There were fewer guards at the rear of the cathedral. Giovanni was fairly certain that he could get past them if they weren't so heavily armed. A sword and armor was no match for one man with a knife, though, and he couldn't afford to die trying to enter Notre Dame.

He could not relax, not with Theresa being held hostage. He couldn't think of anything else to do. He certainly didn't have enough money to bribe one of the guards, and he doubted that he could buy their loyalty anyway. He'd seen the way they looked at Jean-Claude, the way they'd been so eager to obey his every command. Jean-Claude held power, and those who disobeyed him were subject to his wrath.

Jean-Claude believed that the accident in the marketplace had been caused by witchcraft. Maybe Giovanni could convince him that it hadn't been Theresa's doing. Maybe he could shift the blame onto someone else. It was wrong, oh, he knew it was wrong to point at someone else and accuse her the crime. Still, as long as Theresa wasn't the one to burn at the stake, as long as she was released and allowed to go back home…Giovanni wouldn't be able to live with himself if anything happened to Theresa. Would he be able to if he allowed someone else to die in her place, though?

Giovanni wondered if it was he who should die in her stead. He could go to Jean-Claude and confess to everything, say that he had cast the spell. He found the thought repulsive; Jean-Claude would not show him any mercy simply because he was married to Katarina. No, Jean-Claude would have him executed, and then what would become of Katarina? Who would look after her and the babies? What of the twins? Could he really die never knowing them?

He brushed the thoughts away, watching as three guards entered the cathedral. He had noticed that guards would enter the cathedral every few hours, probably to make sure that Theresa was still in there. He hated thinking of them in there with her. He hated to think that they would taunt her and leer at her, that they'd make crude comments or try to entice her to leave the safety of the church. Theresa was a smart girl, she knew better than to leave Notre Dame. In fact, she'd been incredibly smart to run to it in the first place. Still, she was alone in the church, and she was also young and vulnerable. Giovanni bit his lip, watching as the great door slammed shut behind the three guards.

~xXx~

They would reach Lyon in a few days, and Heracles felt sure that the excitement would kill him. He couldn't wait to see Rosalie. He hoped she'd gotten his letters; true, she couldn't read, but she'd assured him that Clopin would read them to her. He wished she'd been able to write back, though with the circus constantly moving, it would have been impossible for him to receive a letter. He could be content knowing that she got his letters and that she enjoyed them, that they made her happy.

He had offered to stay behind, and she'd declined, as she always did. He'd asked her to come with him, and this she'd also declined, claiming that she needed to stay behind and look after Marie. Marie was a grown woman, she didn't need looking after, but Heracles hadn't argued. If Rosalie didn't want to leave the place she'd called home for the past ten years, he wouldn't pressure her or force her.

He wondered briefly if Marie was still seeing the Russian boy. He had been more than disturbed when he'd seen them together, though he was fairly certain that it had been worse for Quasimodo. He'd never seen Quasimodo so angry before, the way he'd grabbed the boy and slammed him into the tree, shouting at him. He sometimes wondered if he should have told Rosalie about Marie and the boy. Rosalie worried enough, though; she had her own pain to deal with, and besides, the boy hadn't been hurting Marie. Marie had been willing, had given her consent, and it seemed that the boy had been treating her tenderly.

The last time he'd seen Rosalie, she'd held his hand. She'd leaned against him and held his hand. They had stared out at the sky, watching the sun sink slowly beneath the horizon, and it had been nice to hold her hand. He'd wanted more, naturally; he'd wanted to hold her and kiss her, to stroke her hair. Perhaps some day she'd let him. For now, he was more than content to hold her hand.

"Why so silent, Heracles? Cat got your tongue?"

He glanced down at Frieda and smiled. These days, she was rarely away from Quasimodo. They made a good match; she was quick and clever and loud, he mild-mannered and creative. Quasimodo looked at her with love in his eyes, as though he adored her, and Heracles remembered once feeling that way about Frieda. Oh, it had been a long time ago, and while he'd loved her very much, he didn't particularly enjoy making love to her. She was so small, he was terrified he'd hurt her, and he hated the way she used to scratch him, digging her nails into his chest and shoulders. Frieda was his friend, not his lover, and he was glad she felt the same way.

"Just thinking," he said, "just lost in thought."

"Thoughts about Rosalie?"

"How'd you guess?"

"Heracles, you think of no one else," she laughed, tossing her flame-red curls. He stooped and picked her up, balancing her on his shoulder as he continued working.

"What can I say? I'm in love. Surely you know what that's like…"

"That I do, but can you tell me why Dierk and the twins know about it too?"

"I didn't tell a soul," said Heracles, "perhaps if you want to keep it a secret, you should stop kissing him in front of everyone."

Frieda laughed again. "Ah, put me down! I've got work to do, so I'll leave you to your thoughts."

He set her down and watched as she waddled away, letting his thoughts drift back to Rosalie, wondering if he'd get to hold her hand again.

~xXx~

She was beginning to hate the cathedral, at least during the day. Parishioners stopped and stared at her, glaring and shaking their heads in disapproval and disgust. She'd overheard at least five different people telling the priests that they should just throw her out, and this terrified her. She didn't want to die, but she didn't want to keep living in the cathedral either. Was she doomed to spend her entire life within its walls?

Theresa had explored every inch of the cathedral, searching for places to hide. Lately soldiers had come into the cathedral. They marched through it, searching for her, claiming that they were making sure she hadn't escaped. As if she could ever escape! She'd considered hiding in the bell tower, but the bell ringer's gaze made her uncomfortable. He was a big, burly man, and he looked at her as though he could see through her clothes. The bell tower was completely empty except for him, and she had no desire to be alone with him.

She heard the door slam and looked up, hoping to see René. She found that she looked forward to his visits, and not just because he brought her food. She liked talking to him. She liked sitting on the floor with him. They took turns talking; she hadn't run out of stories to tell him, but he seemed disinterested in them. He preferred to hear her talk about her own life, and she told him about her family and friends.

She was stunned to see that René was not alone, but accompanied by two other soldiers. He looked somewhat uncomfortable, as though he'd rather be alone. She noticed that he was holding a small sack, and her stomach rumbled. She stepped out of her hiding place, staring at the soldiers.

"It seems the witch has stopped hiding from us," said one of the soldiers.

"Perhaps she'd like to surrender," said another one. He held out his hand mockingly, and she found herself stepping away from him. "Come now, little witch, surely you'd like to at least repent for what you've done?"

She swallowed, glancing at René. He would not meet her eye and looked thoroughly uncomfortable. He was her friend. Why on earth wasn't he standing up for her? "I haven't done anything," she said.

"That's a lie!"

"Well, what else would you expect from a Gypsy?"

"Come on," said René suddenly, "she's still in here, so we can go now."

The other guards looked at him. "We're in no hurry," said one of them, "and besides, we knew she'd still be here."

"She can't go anywhere."

"We're being paid to make sure she stays put, not to create a disturbance in the house of God," said René angrily. Theresa looked around. Several parishioners were staring at them, watching to see if the soldiers would arrest her. He pointed towards the door. "Come on."

The other guards were grumbling as they obeyed him, reluctantly turning and heading towards the door. René paused before following them, looking at her. She was stunned to see the hurt in his eyes; he looked ashamed. "I'm sorry," he whispered, turning and following the other guards. He moved quickly, and Theresa almost didn't see him drop the small sack of food into a church pew. She went to the pew slowly, tiptoeing and trying to remain silent. She picked up the bag and opened it.

The bag contained bread, cheese, an apple, and a small bottle of milk. Theresa stared at the bottle of milk. Milk was expensive, it was almost a luxury. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had it, and she'd spent the majority of her life near farms. Milk was one thing that the farmers had never been willing to share. She glanced back at René in time to see the door close behind him.

She darted back to the alcove by the statue of the Virgin Mary. She sat, leaning against the wall, staring at the bottle of milk. She opened it and took a small sip. Why on earth would René spend this kind of money on her? Wine was cheaper, water was practically free. Did the milk mean that he liked her? Did it mean that he wanted something more than conversation? She drank the milk slowly, nibbling at the bread in between sips.

~xXx~

In his last letter, Heracles had mentioned passing back through France, and Rosalie wondered how soon he would reach Lyon. She found herself staring anxiously out at the road, wanting to see the circus caravans approaching. She couldn't say why, exactly, she wanted to see Heracles so badly. She supposed she'd grown fond of him. She'd always liked talking to him, listening as he told her of his travels. Her life felt ordinary and mundane compared with his, but he still sat and insisted she tell him everything that had happened to her.

She kept his letters folded in her pockets. She couldn't read them, but she would take them out and look at them every now and again, running her fingertips over the small black letters. She imagined him writing, his head bent in concentration. There were certain words that she could identify – her name and his, mostly. She liked to see her name written down; she imagined him writing it, moving the pen and ink slowly and carefully across the paper as he spelled her name. His letters all began the same way – _Dearest Rosalie _– and ended similarly, _Love always, Heracles_.

She knew that Clopin didn't like reading the letters, that they made him uncomfortable. He felt as though he was invading her privacy. She didn't mind terribly. There wasn't anything incredibly personal in the letters, nothing lewd or obscene either. Still, Cassandra was busy with the children, Martine and Jacques-Clopin, plus Dante, Musetta, and the twins. Katarina was in poor health; she tired easily and got headaches frequently. Rosalie had assumed that the symptoms were only in her mind, that they existed because she missed Giovanni.

She found herself missing Heracles. Part of her didn't want to see him; he would only leave her again. She wondered if she should accompany him, or ask him to stay. He loved to travel, loved the life that came with the circus and the open road. She did not want to take it away from him. Still, she wasn't sure she wanted to leave her life behind. She would miss Pierre and Marie, and they would miss her as well. She still felt the need to look after Marie. The girl was twenty, and Rosalie knew in the back of her mind that Marie could care for herself. Still, Marie was deaf, and she needed her mother. She did not have a regular trade; she often watched the rich woman's children in exchange for coins or vegetables, but that wasn't enough to live on. And she'd been hanging around Dmitri more than ever. Rosalie had seen them holding hands on more than one occasion, and this bothered her to no end. Dmitri was a nice boy, but Marie deserved better. She wondered how Marie could understand Dmitri; the boy spoke broken French, and his voice trailed off into Russian when he became confused or agitated.

Rosalie glanced over at Marie now. She was sitting with the rich woman's three children; they were playing some sort of game with little wooden dolls. Dmitri was sitting beside her, watching her with the children. One of the children handed him a doll, and he took it, moving it and making it dance with one of the other dolls. He said something to Marie, and she giggled behind her hand. She took the doll from Dmitri, her fingertips purposely brushing against his hand, and he smiled at her.

~xXx~

"She's very pretty. Pity she's a witch."

They were talking about Theresa, and it made his skin crawl. René tried desperately to ignore them; if he attempted to defend her, they'd only laugh at him, or worse, suspect him of helping her. Lately Jean-Claude had noticed him leaving the cathedral, had demanded to know why he'd been in there in the first place. René had lied to him, of course, had told him that he'd merely been checking the cathedral to make sure Theresa hadn't escaped. Now Jean-Claude sent men into the church every few hours.

"I wonder if Jean-Claude will let us help interrogate her."

"I'll bet she's far prettier when she cries."

The thought chilled René despite the day's oppressive heat. The very idea of Theresa locked in a dungeon horrified him. He knew that Jean-Claude would not be merciful, that he would use the most brutal methods he could think of to obtain a confession. He wouldn't care if it was a false confession or not. René could see it happening in his mind's eye and struggled to push the thoughts away. He saw Theresa strapped to the rack, saw Jean-Claude twisting the handle that made the machine work, heard Theresa screaming for mercy.

"Do you think he'll let us have a go at her before he executes her?"

"No, but we wouldn't have to tell him, would we?"

They were both laughing, and René wanted to strike them, to hurl them to the ground and smash their faces against the pavement until their blood ran into the gutters.

"Isn't it illegal to execute a virgin?"

"Ha, as if she is one!"

René had to bite his tongue to keep from screaming at them. How they could even think of Theresa like his baffled him. They had no right to talk about her like this, like she was nothing but a whore, like she deserved to be tortured, raped, and executed for a crime she didn't commit. René doubted that there even was a crime. Cosette had miscarried. It was something that happened, just a horrid part of nature. What if it had been Theresa who'd miscarried, would anyone cry witchcraft? No. They'd probably blame Theresa for her own miscarriage, and only because she was a Gypsy.

René knew that she didn't like it in the cathedral, but it was the safest place for her. As long as she stayed within its walls, she'd be free from harm. He could still sneak in with food for her; he was fairly certain she'd seen him drop the sack full of bread and cheese into an empty church pew. Perhaps in time Jean-Claude would realize he was making a mistake, and he would let Theresa go.

He stood by the rear door, leaning against it, waiting for time to pass. Once he was relieved of his duty, he could go into the cathedral and see Theresa. He found himself desperately wishing that he could talk to her; standing guard was, and always had been, mindless and boring. He found himself thinking about Theresa, carrying on elaborate conversations with her in his head. He remembered her laugh, the way she covered her mouth with her hands, smiling at him beneath her fingertips. He loved seeing her smile.

~xXx~

He had noticed a difference in René. He didn't laugh and joke as much as he once had; he'd become dry and humorless, almost overnight. Jean-Claude wondered if it had anything to do with the Gypsy in the cathedral. He'd seen René talking with her, had asked him about it. René had lied to him, of course, claiming that he'd been questioning the girl. The girl didn't need to be questioned! Her guilt was plain to see, and the minute she set foot outside of the cathedral, Jean-Claude could get a confession out of her. He was fairly certain that showing her the rack would be enough to make her talk, but he knew he wouldn't stop at that. The rack, the boot, the scavenger's daughter – they all waited in the dungeons for her, and they would all be stained with her blood by the time he was through with her.

The girl had been in the cathedral for exactly three days. Hunger should have driven her from its safety by this point. Jean-Claude knew that the priests and parishioners weren't feeding her; it was clear that all the parishioners hated her, that they thought she was a witch. Perhaps someone else was. Perhaps she was bribing someone in to bringing her food. Jean-Claude was certain that she had no money, but knowing her kind, she wouldn't use it as a bribe anyway. No, she was probably whoring herself out in exchange for something to eat, undermining the justice that he was striving for.

It barely mattered. She was bound to try to leave sooner or later, and he would be waiting for her when she did. As for whoever was helping her, she'd give him up once she was properly introduced to the rack. As much as Jean-Claude hated the idea that one of his own soldiers was betraying him, as much as it sickened him, he vowed to execute whoever it was without mercy.

He watched the cathedral now, thinking of Cosette, desperately hoping that executing this witch would undo her pain. Cosette, who was beautiful and virtuous, did not deserve to suffer so. Jean-Claude knew it was blasphemy to blame God, to hate Him, but He had allowed Cosette to suffer. Jean-Claude now swore that Cosette would be avenged, and that the filthy Gypsy witch who'd hurt her so would die screaming in endless agony. Though God had allowed Cosette to suffer, He would not allow the Gypsy any respite; she would be cast into the darkest pits of Hell for her crime. Jean-Claude supposed that the thought comforted him, if only a little.

He entered the cathedral as the guards changed shifts. He slipped inside, his eyes adjusting to the dimness quickly. He did not see the Gypsy girl right away, but he did see René. René was moving through the cathedral quickly, as if he had a definite purpose, and Jean-Claude followed him. He lingered a few paces behind René, staying in the shadows, watching as René approached the Gypsy girl.

She turned to him. She did not look completely trusting, but there was a certain easiness in her eyes when she looked at him. He was saying something to her that Jean-Claude could not hear, but it hardly looked like he was questioning or interrogating her. It looked for all the world like he was flirting with her. Had René been bringing her food? Was René the one who had betrayed him, had betrayed Cosette as well? Jean-Claude watched, too stunned to move, and felt hate and anger rising up within him.


	20. Still 1505, Part XV

**STILL 1505…**

He watched René leave the cathedral, then stepped out of the shadows and turned to the Gypsy girl. She was standing with her back to him, staring up at some painting on the wall. Jean-Claude watched her. She stood with her arms at her sides, leaning slightly to one side. He saw the outline of her slim, shapely hips beneath her skirt, and stepped closer to her. He moved towards her, and she turned around, staring up at him with large dark eyes.

"I'm surprise you can even enter a church without bursting into flames," he said. It felt as though the anger that had been bubbling up within his chest all day would burst out of him. The Gypsy girl seemed to see it and began to back away from him, unknowingly edging her way into a corner.

"Please, I didn't mean – "

"You're a witch," he hissed, advancing towards her. "You've put a curse on my wife, you've killed my son, and you'll burn for it."

"I'm so sorry for what happened," she said. She had realized far too late that she was trapped and was now pressed against the wall. "I didn't cause it, I swear, I would never do such a thing – "

"Witch!" he grabbed her wrist. She cried out, trying to pull away from him. Her skin felt hot and smooth, her bracelets brushing against his fingers as he pinned her wrist to the wall above her head. She was shaking, gasping for breath, staring up at him with wide, frightened eyes.

He could take her if he wanted to. She was smaller and weaker than he was, she couldn't possibly fight back, and if she told anyone, who would believe her? Who would believe that Jean-Claude Frollo, Captain of the Guard and the very pinnacle of virtue, would force himself on a Gypsy witch? She seemed to realize this and opened her mouth to scream. He pressed his free hand against her mouth, savoring the feel of her lips on his palm. She clawed at him with her free hand, digging her nails into his wrist. The terror in her eyes was intoxicating. It would be so easy to take her. The cathedral was deserted, and he had her pressed into a corner. She had nowhere to flee to. She couldn't escape him or fight him. All he would have to do was lift her skirt to gain access to her.

He glanced upwards at the painting that she'd been looking at earlier. The Virgin Mary, surrounded by angels and flowers, stared down at him, her stern blue eyes harsh and disapproving. Jean-Claude felt his skin break out into gooseflesh. How could he bring himself to violate this girl inside of a church? Could he really commit such an atrocity in the house of God? To defile such a holy place as Notre Dame was unthinkable, unforgivable; no amount of confession would save his soul from damnation. This was the Gypsy witch's doing. Her magic was powerful enough to work in a holy place; she had filled his head with dark, lustful thoughts. She had done this.

He jerked away from her, releasing her. She stared at him, trembling and gasping, too frightened to scream. "You will burn for this," he said, feeling his own voice tremble and struggling to steady it. "Witch!"

He turned on his heel and left, storming out of the cathedral and into the night. It had begun to rain, and he was soon soaked to the bone. The icy water felt refreshing; he felt it cleansing him of the Gypsy's curse. He looked towards René and the other guards. "Arrest her if she attempts to leave," he said, "but don't kill her. I want her alive."

~xXx~

The Captain of the Guard would come back. The cathedral was only so big, and she couldn't hide from him forever. He would return, and he would rape her, and this knowledge made Theresa cry even harder. He insisted that she was a witch, that he wanted her dead, yet he looked at her with cold, cruel lust in his eyes. He was stronger than she was, and no one would punish him if he hurt her. He was the Captain of the Guard, he was above the law. If he raped her, he would deny it, and she would probably be put to death for accusing him.

She buried her face in her hands. She'd always been told that God finds a way to make things right, but now she didn't believe it. How could God let such a horrible man try to harm her? If God truly protected the virtuous, then surely He wouldn't let anyone hurt her. Perhaps it was true that God didn't care for Gypsies, that they didn't matter to Him.

She had to find a way to escape the cathedral. She had to find a way out. It was no longer a place of beauty; it had turned into a dungeon. It would only be a matter of time before the Captain of the Guard came back, and if he did rape her, what would stop him from violating the law of sanctuary? What would stop him from dragging her from the cathedral and throwing her on the funeral pyre in the town square? What would stop him from killing her in the cathedral once he was through raping her? He could slit her throat, let her blood spill out over the pristine floor, and no one would care.

"Theresa?"

She looked up, startled, and saw René through her tears. He approached her slowly, sitting down near her. She felt relief wash over her, and wiped her eyes on the backs of her hands. René had been so kind to her; he was nothing like the other soldiers, or even the Captain. He had brought her food and asked for nothing in return. He'd sat with her, listening while she talked and telling her that things would be all right, that she was safe and no harm could come to her. She desperately wished that this was true now.

"What's the matter?"

"René, you've been so kind to me," she said. He handed her a handkerchief, and she took it, dabbing at her eyes. "But I need your help."

"With what?"

"I can't stay here," she said. "It isn't safe anymore – "

"That's nonsense," he said. "It's perfectly safe in here. The law of sanctuary – "

"The Captain was in here, and he grabbed me, and – and I thought he would – he tried to – " she began to sob again and pressed the handkerchief over her mouth to stifle the sounds that escaped from her throat. She heard René slide closer to her and felt his arm around her shoulder. He had never touched her before, and his touch was comforting. She let him put his arm around her and hold her. "He'll do it if he comes back! Please, please help me escape…"

"I won't let him." There was a sudden fierceness in René's voice, and she wasn't sure if it frightened her or comforted her. "He will never hurt you, I swear. Come on."

He pulled her to her feet, and the sudden movement made her dizzy. He was looking around, his eyes scanning the darkened church. "Here." He pulled her along towards a narrow confession booth. He opened the door. The chamber was miniscule and pitch-black. "Stay in here," he said, "and take this." He handed her a knife. She took it. It was heavy, and the handle bore the insignia of the Parisian guard. "I'm going to go and find your cousin. We'll find a way to get you out of here."

"Thank you," she whispered, still staring down at the knife.

"I will not let anyone hurt you," he said. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

She nodded, watching as he hurried out of the church. She closed the door to the confessional, letting the darkness embrace her. She sat down; there was a small padded section of the floor, probably meant for someone who was kneeling. It was comfortable enough. She leaned against the wall, carefully slipping the knife into the sash of her skirt. It was comforting to have the cold piece of metal with her, to know that she could defend herself if the Captain of the Guard ever came back. It was still move comforting to know that René would protect her, and that he would help her escape.

~xXx~

He did not want to believe that Jean-Claude had tried to rape Theresa, but he knew that she wouldn't lie about such a thing. He had seen the way Jean-Claude had looked at her, his eyes full of a frightening mix of lust and hate. Jean-Claude insisted that she was a witch, that she had cast a spell and caused his wife to miscarry. If she was a witch, why would she do such a thing? What could she possibly gain from it? And why would she continue to stay in Notre Dame? Surely if she was a witch she could use her magic to escape.

René was convinced that Theresa was not a witch. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became. Cosette's miscarriage was a tragic accident of nature, nothing more. It was something that sometimes happened to women; no one was ever at fault. To think that Theresa could cause it by looking at Jean-Claude…well, the more he thought about it, the more ridiculous it seemed. He entered the inn where Giovanni was staying. The innkeeper looked at him, but saw his armor and sword, and said nothing. He went to Giovanni's room and knocked on the door. He waited, listening and hearing movement within the room. The door opened slowly.

"What do you want?"

"I need to talk to you."

"So talk."

René sighed, glancing around. He found it hard to believe that Giovanni and Theresa were related, or that Giovanni was even a Gypsy. He had blonde hair and blue eyes; even if he was a Gypsy, he could pass himself off as a respectable member of society. He could leave the wandering, poverty-stricken life that all Gypsies seemed doomed to lead. René wondered why he didn't. "It's about Theresa," he whispered.

Giovanni was glaring at him as he stepped aside and let him into the room. The room was small and cheaply furnished. Giovanni sat down on a chair, motioning for René to take the one across from him. "What about her?" he asked.

"She isn't safe in the cathedral," said René.

"I thought she was protected by the law of sanctuary."

"It can be overturned by the king," said René, "but that isn't what I'm worried about." He cleared his throat. Jean-Claude was his friend, and he didn't want to betray him in any way. Still, he was determined to see Theresa executed, and he would undoubtedly do anything to ensure that it happened. "Jean-Claude tried to hurt her," he said finally. "And I'm afraid he'll do it again if she stays in the cathedral."

"What do you mean, 'tried to hurt her'?" Giovanni's voice was filled with anger, and his eyes seemed to burn with it. "Did he try to rape my cousin?"

"Yes." He hadn't wanted to admit it. Telling Giovanni that it had happened seemed to cement the ugly event in history.

"Where is he?" demanded Giovanni, suddenly standing up. René saw the knife in his belt and rose, moving between Giovanni and the door. "Get out of my way, I'm going to kill him."

"No," said René, "listen to me, Giovanni, you can't go after him – "

"She's like a sister to me," said Giovanni, his voice thin and angry, "and if that animal put his hands on her – "

"She's fine! He didn't hurt her. I swear to you, her virtue is still intact." Giovanni was glaring at him, his hands clenched into angry fists by his side. René raised his hands, showing Giovanni that he hadn't reached for the sword in his belt, that he was essentially unarmed and had no desire to fight him. "I've given her a knife, so she can protect herself, but it isn't safe for her in the cathedral. We need to help her escape."

"Why do you want to help her?" asked Giovanni. "What could you gain from it?"

René swallowed. He'd been asking himself the same question over and over, and he still had no answer. Theresa had not offered him anything in exchange for the escape, though he was fairly certain that she would give whatever he asked. He found he didn't want anything from her. Seeing her crying in the cathedral, seeing her alone and frightened, had made his heart ache. He didn't want to see her like that again. He wanted to see her happy and smiling, dancing and twirling and laughing.

"I love her," he said finally. He was not entirely sure if he meant it or not. He had never loved anyone before; he didn't know what it felt like. Seeing Theresa and wanting her to be happy was close enough.

Giovanni looked skeptical. "You love her even though she's a Gypsy? Everyone knows that Gypsies are only good for one thing," he said sarcastically. René winced, hearing his own words being hurled at him. "Let me guess, you'll help her escape if she gives herself to you?"

"No, it isn't like that."

"Then prove it to me!"

René bit his lip, thinking. Giovanni glared at him, demanding the impossible. How could he show him what he felt in his heart? How could he prove his love for Theresa? He glanced around the shabby room, noticing the window for the first time. The rain was still pouring down relentlessly. The guards who were standing on duty would be drenched and cranky, and any one of them would be more than glad to be relieved of his duty.

"I can take you to her," said René.

"I've been barred from the cathedral," said Giovanni. "That Captain of yours has made sure no one will let me in."

"Just come with me," said René. "The rear of the cathedral isn't as heavily guarded as the front, and I'm sure I can convince someone to look the other way."

~xXx~

As much as he distrusted the soldier, he followed him anyway. His desire to see his cousin overrode his fear. They wove through the shadows of Paris in silence, approaching the cathedral from the rear. The guard standing by the rear door looked thoroughly irritated. Rain pelted him, drumming against his armor, and he was shivering, making it clatter.

"Wait here."

Giovanni watched from the shadows as René approached the guard. They spoke, exchanging words in tones too hushed for Giovanni to hear. For a brief instant, he feared that René would turn and point and that the guard would spring forth and seize him. The guard turned and walked away, his armor clanking as he moved. René motioned for him, and he emerged from the shadows.

"They've been patrolling the inside of the cathedral every few hours," said René, pushing the door open. "You don't have much time."

"Why can't we sneak her out now?" asked Giovanni.

"We need a place to hide her," said René, shaking his head. "Besides, they'd catch us before we made it back to your room. What we need to do when we sneak her out is create a diversion somewhere else, make them abandon their posts."

Giovanni nodded, slipping into the cathedral. It was quiet and dark, but dry. René was leading him across the room, towards a narrow row of confession booths. He knocked on the door of one lightly. "Theresa," he whispered, "Theresa, come out."

The door slid open, and Theresa stepped out, blinking at the light from René's lamp. Her face broke into a smile once she saw him, and she threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. Giovanni held her, pressing her to him.

"Giovanni!" she cried, "I'm so glad to see you!"

"Are you all right?" he asked, looking down at her now.

She nodded. "Yes," she said, "René's been so kind to me. He's brought me food, and he says he'll help me escape."

"Yes," said René. He was glancing over his shoulder, looking at the rear door. "Giovanni and I are going to set a plan and get you out as soon as we can."

He noticed that Theresa was looking at René with adoration in her eyes. He was her hero, her champion. It made Giovanni somewhat uncomfortable. Such adoration made her vulnerable; it made her seem desperate and willing. René could easily take advantage of that. What if this whole escape attempt was just some ploy to get into her skirt? What if he was planning to lure her from the cathedral just so he could coerce her into making love to him? And what would he do once he'd gotten what he wanted? Would he just hand her over to Jean-Claude Frollo when he was through defiling her?

Risky as it was, Giovanni had no choice but to work with René to help Theresa escape. He was more familiar with Paris, he knew of better places to hide her. He would know how to distract the other guards. Giovanni looked down at Theresa, stroking her hair. He would let René help her escape, but that was all he would do. He would watch René, and would kill him if he tried to take advantage of Theresa.

~xXx~

He was cold and tired, but sleep refused to come to him. He lay there in the darkness, listening to Cosette's breathing, envying her slumber. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the Gypsy girl. He saw her pressed against the wall of the cathedral, staring up at him, her large dark eyes full of fear. He felt her soft lips beneath his palm, felt her shuddering with fear. He wanted her. He wanted her so badly it terrified him. He found himself replaying the events in the cathedral, twisting and changing them. In his mind's eye, he saw himself tear her blouse open, saw himself lift her skirt and enter her. He felt her; she was soft and warm, and she tried to push him away from her, striking at him with her fists. Her struggles were futile, and he overpowered her. Her screams for help went unanswered.

He sat up suddenly, shaking and terrified. How could he think such thoughts while lying beside his wife? How could he fantasize about raping a woman in a church? How could such vile, unholy thoughts enter his head? What had that Gypsy done to him? How could she torment him like this? This was her way of tempting him, of course; she wanted to lure him back into the cathedral and take her. Taking her in a church like that would surely damn him to Hell, and that was what she wanted.

He got out of bed, dressing quickly in the dark. Cosette groaned in her sleep, but did not wake. She'd been having nightmares as of late, and sleeping potions were the only things that chased them away. He grabbed his coin purse and left the room, refusing to look at his wife. She lay there, so soft and innocent, so pure and loving, so unlike that dirty Gypsy harlot he couldn't stop thinking about. This was her doing, all her doing.

He left the house. It had stopped raining, and a thick, misty fog hung over the city. He was grateful for it; it shrouded him, kept him hidden from the rest of the world, and perhaps from God as well. He knew that he should go and pray, but entering the cathedral would bring him closer to the Gypsy. He would not be able to control himself if he saw her again. He would take her and sully the house of God in the process. No, he could not go back to the cathedral.

He wove through the back alleys and found what he was looking for. He had not donned his uniform, nor did he carry anything with the insignia of the Parisian guards on it. The prostitutes would not see a soldier; they would not flee from him. They stared at him, posing and pouting, shaking their hips and calling out to him. He pointed at one wordlessly, and she took him to a narrow, filthy room. She looked enough like the witch in the cathedral; most Gypsies looked the same to him anyway.

"I ask that you pay me first," she said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Jean-Claude looked around the room. There was a small table with a chair by the bed and, in the dim lamplight, he thought he saw a cradle in the darkest corner of the room.

"What is that?" he asked, pointing.

"He won't wake," said the prostitute hurriedly, jumping to her feet, rushing to him, grabbing his hand as though begging him to stay. "He – he's my son, but you needn't worry about him. He won't wake."

He put a few coins down on the table, then grabbed her arms. She gasped as he shoved her, forcing her to bend over the table. He knew that she would not fight him or try to escape, that she would let him have her any way he wanted so long as he paid her. "I want you to struggle," he said, pinning one of her arms behind her back. "I want you to beg me to stop."

"Of course." Her voice sounded frightened. He stared down at her; in the dimness, he could pretend that she was the girl in the cathedral. He lifted her skirt and nudged her legs apart with his knee. She said nothing, and he twisted her arm. "You're hurting me," she whispered.

He entered her without replying and heard her hiss in pain. He was rough with her, slamming her into the little table, making her whimper. "Stop," she whispered, "you're hurting me, please stop."

He closed his eyes, weaving the fingers of his free hand into her hair and pulling, jerking her head back. She cried out, and he felt her squirm beneath him. He imagined the girl in the church, the little witch, imagined her bent over the table, thrashing and begging him to stop. It was too much for him, and he climaxed, unintentionally tightening his grip on the prostitute's hair and pulling even harder.

He stepped away from her, watching her as she righted herself and smoothed her skirt. He pulled his trousers back up, and she turned to him. She was rubbing her scalp, staring at him with terrified eyes. "Leave," she whispered, "get out and never come back."

He reached into the coin pouch and tossed a few more coins onto the table, then turned and left. He passed the other prostitutes, ignoring them as they called out to him. The one he'd been with would undoubtedly warn her friends against him, but he didn't care. He could enter the cathedral and pray for forgiveness now. He doubted that he would see the Gypsy, and if he did, he would be too spent to even think of attacking her. He entered the cathedral, nodding to the soldiers he'd posted. They looked wet and uncomfortable in their dripping armor, but they did not question him and he did not speak to them.

The cathedral was dark. The priests were probably all asleep, but this didn't matter. He did not need a priest to hear his confession; God would hear it. He approached the pews and knelt, taking his rosary beads out of his pocket. He closed his eyes and began to pray, his fingers moving rapidly over the beads.

~xXx~

"Tomorrow, an hour after sunset," said René. "Paris is made out of wood and straw. The fire will spread quickly, and the guards will be forced to leave the cathedral to contain it."

Giovanni nodded. "And you'll be waiting by the docks with a boat?"

"Yes."

Giovanni still didn't fully trust him, but he had no other options. He glanced back at the cathedral where Theresa was being held prisoner. As much as Giovanni hated it, this soldier was her only means of rescue. "All right," he said. "I'll start the fire an hour after sunset."


	21. Still 1505, Part XVI

STILL 1505…

"Giovanni and I will come for you an hour after sunset," said René. "We'll come in through the rear door."

Theresa nodded. "You're certain it will work?"

"Yes," said René. "Giovanni will start a fire somewhere else, somewhere far away from here. The guards will have to leave the cathedral in order to contain it."

She did not like the idea of her cousin doing something dangerous and illegal for her sake. What if Giovanni was caught? Surely the penalty for purposely starting a fire was a harsh one; what would happen to him if he was caught? Would he be tortured? Executed? The thoughts were too horrible, and Theresa shook them away. As much as she hated the idea of Giovanni risking so much for her, she knew that he and René had probably gone over every other option.

"It will be fine," said René.

"All right. I trust you."

She found herself remembering the way he'd put his arm around her shoulders the previous night, and now wished that he would hold her again. There had been something pure and comforting about his touch, and Theresa found herself wanting it again. She wondered what his kiss felt like, and she suddenly felt ashamed. René was a soldier, soldiers only wanted one thing from women, especially Gypsy women, but…but René was different. He wasn't like the other soldiers. He was kind to her, and his kindness seemed strange and foreign. Was it even possible for soldiers to be kind? Would he want something in return if he helped her escape? Would he want her body? Surely Giovanni wouldn't let him, surely Giovanni would stop him, and she still had the knife he'd given her.

"I have to go," said René. He touched her shoulder. His touch was hesitant, tentative, as though he was afraid of crushing her. His hand was large and calloused, but warm and gentle at the same time. "You're safe in here," he said, letting his hand fall back to his side. "I won't let anyone hurt you."

She watched him go, wishing she could call out to him, to beg him to stay with her. She hugged herself, closing her eyes and imagining his embrace.

~xXx~

He was secretly relieved when René told him to go home. Jean-Claude had been up for most of the night, had barely slept, and was now afraid he'd collapse. He highly doubted that today would be the day the Gypsy witch decided to leave the safety of the cathedral. He found himself remembering her, and his memories were highly unpleasant. Her eyes, staring up at him, silently pleading, begging for mercy. He had been so close, so dangerously close to committing a sin in the house of God. Thankfully he'd had enough self-control to break her spell in time.

Cosette was sitting at her dressing table when he arrived. She looked genuinely surprised to see him, but he could see some happiness and relief in her eyes. He sat down on their bed, pulling off his uniform, suddenly unable to stay awake. She came to him silently, crawling into bed beside him and pulling the blankets over them. He slept in her arms, his head resting against her breast. He could hear her heartbeat, loud and steady, and it comforted him. He had lost his son, his heir, but he had not lost her. Perhaps, after the witch was executed, she would conceive again, and this time, the baby would not die.

~xXx~

Giovanni had counted and re-counted his money. He had a fairly decent amount, enough to last his family for a few months if they were careful, but he'd hoped for more. He stared down at the coins in disgust. Had he really sacrificed so much to gain so little? Had he abandoned Katarina and their babies for a pile of coins? Had he put Theresa in danger for money? He couldn't bear to look at the money anymore, and he shoved the coin pouch into his knapsack. He briefly wondered if he should go and see his grandmother, beg her forgiveness, and the thought angered him.

She would only refuse him, would only further insult his family. She would call Theresa a whore and a witch, and would probably say the same things about Katarina. Whether or not she loved him was irrelevant; she hated the fact that he was a Gypsy, that he'd been raised by them and that he loved the people who had taken care of him. His aunt had been more of a mother than his actual birth-mother. When he heard the word 'mother,' it was her face he saw.

He found himself tempted to go and tell his grandmother that he hated her, that she had no right to speak so poorly of his family, but he shoved the temptations aside. He had no time to go and grind the axe. Besides, he doubted that she would listen to him. She would probably have him thrown out, or perhaps even arrested. He could not afford to be tossed into a dungeon, not when he had to help Theresa.

~xXx~

He was relieved that Jean-Claude had agreed to go home. He'd looked gaunt and ragged, as though he hadn't slept in days. René was more afraid he'd wind up hurting himself than Theresa. He watched Jean-Claude leave, feeling relief wash over him, and went over the plans again in his head.

Giovanni would start a fire, and it would spread quickly. Jean-Claude would be forced to release the guards from Notre Dame, Theresa would be able to escape. Hopefully, she and Giovanni would be out of Paris before Jean-Claude realized she'd gone.

René suddenly found himself hating the idea. Jean-Claude was his best friend. He didn't want to betray him like this. Theresa's execution would give Jean-Claude peace of mind, closure; her escape would devastate and emasculate him. As much as René did not want to cause his friend such pain and humiliation, he forced himself to think of Theresa. He couldn't let Jean-Claude execute her. He loved her. He wanted to hold her and kiss her and make her smile, he wanted to see her laugh, he wanted her to live. It suddenly occurred to him that he would never see her again. She and Giovanni would return to Lyon, and he would remain behind in Paris, covering their tracks and leading Jean-Claude away from them.

The thought stung him. Could he really go his whole life without ever seeing her again? Life would be empty and lonely without her. If he left Paris and went to Lyon, what would happen, though? Jean-Claude would suspect him, would hunt him down and kill him. And Theresa, well, she'd made it clear that she didn't love him back. She'd been taught not to trust soldiers, and she couldn't unlearn that lesson. Even though he'd shown her that he was different, that he was kind, that he loved her, she could never love him back. Perhaps it would be better if he never saw her again. Seeing her, knowing she couldn't ever love him, would be agony.

No, it would be best if they went their separate ways. She would return to Lyon, and he would stay in Paris. He would forget her eventually. Perhaps he'd marry, and if he had a daughter, he would call her 'Theresa,' after the pretty Gypsy girl who'd stolen his heart.

~xXx~

"Where are you, little witch?"

"Come out, come out, wherever you are…"

Theresa did not recognize the voices, but she knew that they were soldiers. She swallowed, slipping her hand into her sash and gripping the knife handle. Knowing she had it, knowing that she could protect herself, was comforting. She slowly stepped out of the shadows, turning to the two soldiers.

"There she is."

"I told you she was still in here."

They approached her, and she had to fight the urge to run. Running would only entice them, invite them to chase after her. It would show her fear, and would ultimately amuse them, give them another reason to laugh at her. "What do you want?" she asked.

"We were wondering if you'd like to surrender today."

She shook her head. "I haven't done anything wrong."

They stepped closer to her, and she suddenly wished that René was there with her. He would make them leave her alone. He would protect her. "Well, perhaps you'd like something else…"

The soldier snickered, and his comrade held out an apple. Theresa glared at them. She was not hungry; René had given her some bread and cheese earlier. She knew, though, what these men would demand in exchange for the apple, and she would never give it to them, no matter how hungry she was. She shook her head. "I'm not hungry."

"Oh, come on, little witch! You've been in here for nearly four days. Surely even witches need to eat…"

"We don't want much in return."

They both laughed. "Nothing you haven't given away before, anyway."

"No," she said, glaring at them. "Never."

The soldiers' features darkened, and Theresa slowly slipped her hand back into the sash of her skirt, gripping the knife. "No matter," said one of them, biting into the apple. "The little whore can't hide in here forever." They left, and Theresa watched them go. She leaned against the wall, letting the relief wash over her. She eased her grip on the knife's handle, wishing that the sun would hurry up and sink below the horizon. Once the sun had set, the plan would go into motion, and she would be free from this wretched cathedral.


	22. Still 1505, Part XVII

STILL 1505…

Paris was burning. Flames leapt up, consuming everything in their path, and Jean-Claude found himself ordering his soldiers away from their posts, telling them to leave Notre Dame to quench the fire. He would guard the cathedral, make sure the witch didn't leave its safety. Perhaps this was all her doing. Perhaps she'd managed to cast another spell, to create a fire that would divert his attention. He'd had no idea how clever she was until now, but the fire could be contained. The fire would be stopped and her escape would be foiled.

Jean-Claude entered the cathedral. It was completely deserted, and he moved through it quickly, his eyes scanning the darkened pews and alcoves. He shifted the quiver of arrows on his shoulder; he was not entirely certain of why he'd bothered bringing along his bow and arrows. Something inside of him had grabbed them as he'd left Cosette, and now he found himself wondering why. He was not terribly good with a bow and arrow. His aim was decent enough when he had to hit a stationary target. It was downright atrocious when he had to moving one.

He caught a brief glimpse of the Gypsy, heard the bells on her sash ringing as she fled. She had not seen him, did not know he was there, but she was rushing for the rear door of the cathedral. Katarina's husband was standing by it, holding it open, beckoning to her. Jean-Claude quickened his pace. He should have arrested Giovanni when he'd had the chance. He should have known that Giovanni would try to free the witch. He had probably been the one to start the fire that was distracting his soldiers!

Jean-Claude started to run as the door slammed. The Gypsy was no longer in the church, and once he was outside, he would arrest her.

~xXx~

"Take that thing off! Someone will hear us!"

Theresa fumbled with the sash, struggling to untie the knot. Giovanni glanced back at the cathedral. He thought he'd heard footsteps. The cathedral was dark, dimly lit, he hadn't been able to see anyone. Hopefully it had only been his imagination. Hopefully no one had been there and no one would connect the fire with Theresa's escape. Theresa finally succeeded in untying the sash and let it fall to the ground. She glanced back at it longingly; it was one of her favorite pieces of clothing, after all, but Giovanni grabbed her wrist and tugged at her. She could make another sash when they reached Lyon.

"Come on."

She stumbled along after him, glancing back at the cathedral. The docks weren't far away, they could reach them. Hopefully René had kept his promise. Hopefully he would be there with a rowboat, waiting to take him and Theresa to safety. The river was coming into view, and Giovanni squinted. He could see a shadowy figure coming towards them in a boat. It had to be René. It just had to be.

He did not hear the cathedral door slam shut, but he did hear Jean-Claude shouting, and it made his legs falter. "Stop!" shouted Jean-Claude, "stop right where you are! You are both under arrest!"

Giovanni felt himself turn to look at Jean-Claude. Jean-Claude was holding a bow and arrow, aiming it at Theresa, who was staring at him, her eyes wide. "Please," she cried, her voice thin and desperate, "please, I didn't – "

Giovanni saw Jean-Claude's fingers tightening on the bow, knew that he was going to fire and felt his own paralysis break. He ran, pulling Theresa, jerking her along after him. The figure in the boat – he could see the figure, it was definitely René – could help them. He heard a splash and saw René leap from the boat, wading across the shallow bank of the Seine, pulling it after him. René was shouting, his voice drowned out by Jean-Claude's.

It happened in less than a minute, but to Giovanni, if felt as though time had slowed. Theresa was screaming, and he turned just as she fell. An arrow was jutting out of the back of her leg, just above her knee. She stumbled, her legs giving way, and landed on the soft sandy riverbank. Another arrow seemed to magically appear in her back, sticking crudely out of her right shoulder. She was on her hands and knees, screaming, and Jean-Claude was standing a few paces away, fumbling with the bow and arrow. Giovanni dropped to his knees, scooping Theresa up into his arms. His hand brushed the arrow in her back and she wailed in pain.

"Get out of my way, René!"

He had not realized that René was standing between Theresa and Jean-Claude, and in the moment, he didn't care. Giovanni held Theresa, gripping her as tightly as he could, unaware that he'd begun to cry. Her own screams of pain were pure agony in his heart; her voice had taken on an unnaturally high pitch. She gripped his arms, staring up at him helplessly, tears streaming down her face.

"Theresa," he said, "oh God, I'm so sorry, Theresa…"

~xXx~

"Get out of my way!"

"Why? So you can shoot her again? She's dying, Jean-Claude!" shouted René, "you've seen enough wounds like that to know there's no hope for her! Just let her die in peace!"

"She murdered my son! She murdered my son, and you ask me to let her die in peace?"

"What do you care how she dies, Jean-Claude? She'll go straight to Hell for what she's done!"

Much to René's relief, Jean-Claude lowered the bow and arrow. René was tempted to glance over at Theresa and Giovanni, but he held his head still. Looking at her would only betray the lie. Jean-Claude was a terrible shot; she'd be dead already if the wound was indeed fatal. If Jean-Claude left right away, if René was able to treat her wounds in time, he could save her. At least Giovanni hadn't attempted to remove the arrows; they were the only things staunching the bleeding at this point. The thought of Theresa bleeding to death terrified and angered him. He didn't want to have to turn and look at her and see the arrows jutting out of her. He didn't want to hear her screaming in agony.

"Go home to Cosette," said René. "Hold her in your arms and tell her the curse is undone."

"You're a traitor, René," said Jean-Claude. He was still gripping the bow and arrows. René suddenly wondered if Jean-Claude would kill him too. Knowing Jean-Claude's poor aim, he'd die slowly and painfully, and he'd never be able to save Theresa.

"I…I know…"

Jean-Claude's hands were shaking as he raised the bow and arrow. René stared at him. Begging would do no good. Begging for his life would only show weakness, would only make it that much easier for Jean-Claude to kill him. Jean-Claude was shaking so badly he couldn't position the arrow against the string; it fell to the ground, landing in the sand. "Get out of Paris, René," said Jean-Claude, throwing down the bow in frustration, "if I ever see you again, I will kill you."

René said nothing, watching as Jean-Claude turned and walked away, his shoulders slumped. He waited until he was entirely out of sight before rushing over to Theresa and Giovanni. Giovanni was crying, and this unnerved René. He had never seen a man cry before; he couldn't even remember the last time he himself had cried. "Please say you can save her," sobbed Giovanni, "please, please say you were lying to him…"

"Hold her still," said René, kneeling over Theresa now. He reached for his pack, dumping its contents onto the riverbank. It was unmanly to carry sewing supplies about, but they were useful nonetheless, and he would need to stitch Theresa's wounds shut. He picked up the needle and thread, slipping the needle between his teeth. "Don't let her move," he said. "It's going to hurt her a great deal, so don't let her move."

~xXx~

René moved quickly, methodically, and for an instant, it surprised Giovanni. He watched as René grabbed the sash that Theresa had abandoned, ripping it into strips. The fabric was thin, nearly transparent, and it would do nothing to stop her bleeding. René seemed to realize this and took his coat off, ripping it apart as though it was made of paper.

He reached for Theresa now, grabbing the back of her blouse and pulling. Giovanni watched as René tore the back of her blouse open, jerking fabric away from the wound, exposing her tanned shoulder. "Hold her," said René. He spoke through gritted teeth, and Giovanni saw that he was holding a threaded needle in his mouth. The black thread stood out against his pale skin. "And don't let her faint."

Giovanni nodded, tightening his grip on Theresa, pinning her arms to her sides. He looked down at her; he would not watch as René extracted the arrow and stitched the wound shut. He did not want to see his cousin's blood, did not want to hear her crying. Theresa was shaking, staring up at him, her eyes full of helplessness and desperation. What if this plan backfired? What if René couldn't save her? What if she died gasping and bleeding in his arms? It had been his job to protect Theresa, to watch over her and make sure she was safe, and he had failed. How could he return home without her? How could he face his uncle with the knowledge that he hadn't been able to keep Theresa safe? How could he tell his aunt and uncle that their daughter was dead?

"Tell me a story, Theresa," he said, trying to force back his own tears. "Come on, let's have a story."

Theresa whimpered. Giovanni glanced at René; he was gripping the arrow, preparing to pull it out of her back. "Tell the one about the princess and the peasant," said René, not looking up from the wound.

"Once…once upon a time…" Theresa's words melted into an ear-piercing scream, and Giovanni felt her muscles tighten. He gripped her, holding her still, keeping her from thrashing from the pain. René's hands were covered in blood, and he glared down at the arrow before casting it aside.

"Once there was a peasant," gasped Theresa, her voice full of pain, "and he loved a princess with all his heart…"

Giovanni nodded. "That's right," he said. "Come on, you can tell it."

"…and he had to kill the monsters…" Theresa blinked. Her eyes appeared to be dimming.

"Stay awake, Theresa," said René, his voice sharp. He was pressing strips of his coat against the wound, mopping up the blood that had pooled around it. "Finish the story. How many monsters were there?"

"…four…" Theresa shrieked in pain; René had started to stitch the wound shut. "There were four, and they were evil…and the peasant couldn't marry the princess until he cut their hearts out…"

Giovanni watched René, wondering how he had known about the story. It was one of Giovanni's favorites. He could remember begging his uncle to tell it, could remember all the different voices his uncle had used. He remembered the marionettes his uncle had carved, how the princess bore a striking resemblance to his aunt. How did René know this story? His uncle had made it up; René couldn't possibly have heard it. Did Theresa tell it to him? Why would she? Why would he want to hear it?

"And so the peasant went to the woods," said Theresa, "to find the monsters…and the first one was…big and fierce…and had…knives for teeth…"

René nodded, never looking up from the wound in her shoulder. The blood-stained needle glinted in the light; across the river, Paris was burning. The light from the flames reached out, illuminating everything. Giovanni could see Theresa and the wound in her shoulder with perfect clarity. He shuddered.

"And the peasant killed him…by cutting off his head…and he cut the heart out and gave it to the king…"

Theresa cried out, twisting in his arms. René had stopped stitching the wound and was now dabbing at it with the remnants of his coat. "All right," he said, looking down at the arrow that was still in Theresa's leg. "One more."

"…it hurts…"

"Set her down on her stomach."

Giovanni did not want to let go of Theresa, did not want to stop holding her, but he obeyed René, gently setting her down on the ground. René was pulling at her skirt now, ripping it and shoving it up around her hips, and Giovanni suddenly wanted to strike him. For an instant, it looked as though he was preparing to rape Theresa. René was looking down at the arrow, biting his lip in concentration, completely oblivious to everything else. "Hold her," he said, "don't let her move."

Giovanni put his hands on Theresa's back, pressing her down against the ground. He felt dirty, like a rapist. He'd been so terrified that René would violate Theresa, and now he was holding her down for him while he tore her skirt. "Don't let her faint." Giovanni glanced at Theresa's face now. She was crying, her shoulders shaking with pain.

"Finish the story, Theresa," he said, closing his eyes.

Theresa screamed, and Giovanni opened his eyes in time to see René yank the arrow from her leg. Blood spurted from the wound, and Theresa thrashed beneath his hands. René was pressing a piece of cloth against the wound, pushing down with both hands. The cloth was turning red. Theresa wailed, and Giovanni felt like crying. There was nothing he could do to ease her suffering. Death was the only way to end it, and the thought repulsed him. Could he really kill her just to put her out of her misery?

"Come on, Theresa, finish the story," said René, pulling Giovanni from his thoughts.

"And the king said, 'you must kill the other three monsters,' " sobbed Theresa. "And so the peasant…went back to the woods…to find the second monster…"

Giovanni watched as René stitched the second wound. He moved quickly, despite the slick red blood covering his hands. Giovanni watched the needle weaving in and out of his cousin's skin, watched René pull the thin black thread to close the wound. It suddenly reminded him of watching his uncle creating hand puppets, and Giovanni shuddered. He remembered watching his uncle work, bent over the brightly colored fabric, humming as he stitched little smiles onto the puppets. René was staring down at Theresa's leg with the same, intense concentration, his fingers working smoothly, without hesitation.

"The second monster was big…and fierce…and ugly…and had fire instead of eyes…" Theresa shuddered, gasping. "And the peasant…threw him in the lake…and drowned him…"

"All right," said René. He looked up at Giovanni now, and, for the first time, Giovanni saw the fear in his eyes. Had he been genuinely afraid for Theresa's life? He had been afraid that he'd fail, that he'd lose her? René turned and glanced back in the direction Jean-Claude had left. "We have to get going."

He rose, letting the bloody needle and thread fall to the sand. Giovanni lifted Theresa carefully, trying not to brush against the wound in her back. She groaned, but reached up and gripped his shoulders. He followed René towards the boat, never stopping to look back at Notre Dame or the bloodstained spot where Theresa had lain.

~xXx~

Though the fire had spread quickly, it had been contained fairly easily. Paris, after all, was made of sticks and straw, and the guards were trained to keep it from burning to the ground. The Gypsy girl was dead, Jean-Claude was certain of it, and writhing in Hell for her crimes. The knowledge that he had been the one to kill her was comforting, though he had hoped to have her properly executed. Still, she was dead, and it barely mattered how it had happened.

His fury for René knew no bounds, but it was mixed with some other emotion that he couldn't quite identify. René, who had once been his best friend, had betrayed him. He had probably fed the Gypsy girl, he had probably set the fire to distract everyone, he had probably been the one to orchestrate her escape. Jean-Claude knew that he shouldn't have let René live, that he should have killed him on the spot for betraying not just him, but Cosette as well. He was ashamed that he'd been unable to. Still, what would René's death have accomplished? The Gypsy's death undid her curse. René's death would have undone nothing.

Cosette was waiting for him when he returned. She stood in their bedchamber, her back to him, staring out the window. "I was worried," she said, finally turning to him, "the fire…"

"It's been contained," he said, approaching her. His uniform was wet and muddy, and it felt heavier than normal. He pulled it off, letting it fall carelessly to the floor. He sat down on their bed, suddenly feeling thoroughly exhausted. He closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead, and felt Cosette sit down beside him. He opened his eyes and looked at her. She was staring at him, her hands folded primly in her lap. "The witch is dead," he said finally. "She tried to flee the cathedral, and I killed her."

Cosette nodded. "Oh."

He put his arm around her, leaning against her shoulder. She embraced him, and he closed his eyes, breathing in her sweet, clean scent. He let her stroke his hair, savoring the way her fingertips felt against his scalp. "I love you," he said, "I love you so much, Cosette."

"I love you, Jean-Claude," she whispered, kissing his forehead. "With all my heart, I love you."

In that moment, nothing else mattered. The Gypsy's death, René's betrayal – none of it mattered at all. Cosette, beautiful, sweet, loving Cosette, was all that mattered. She held him in her arms, she stroked his hair, and she took away all his pain. Jean-Claude let her hold him, feeling blissfully empty, devoid of everything except his love for her. He loved her more than anyone or anything, he needed her; how could he even think about living without her?


	23. Still 1505, Part XVIII

STILL 1505…

René had promised to return within the hour, but the hour had come and gone and Giovanni was terrified. He shivered; despite the smoke that still hung in the air, it was freezing. Theresa stirred in his arms, and he looked down at her. He shifted, trying to make her more comfortable. She was in too much pain to stand up, and Giovanni was tempted to put her down. She seemed to grow heavier as each second passed, and Giovanni was afraid he'd drop her.

It was becoming painfully clear that René wasn't coming. Giovanni turned, looking down the road. He had sold his uncle's horse, and was now regretting it. The only way he could possibly get to Lyon involved walking, carrying Theresa in his arms. He sighed, then began walking down the road. What if René had been arrested? If Jean-Claude had caught him, he was probably dead.

"Giovanni!"

He turned, more than relieved when he saw René approaching. He was leading a mule, and as he came into view, Giovanni saw that the mule was pulling a hearse. The thin black structure seemed to wobble on its wheels, and for an instant, Giovanni did not want to place Theresa within it. René was opening the back of the hearse, talking to him and motioning for him to come forward with Theresa.

Giovanni stepped forward reluctantly, and René helped him lay Theresa in the back of the hearse. Giovanni climbed up, sitting beside her. René had thought to pack a few blankets in the hearse, and Giovanni now wrapped one around Theresa. "We should reach Lyon in a few days if we hurry," René said. He closed the door to the hearse before Giovanni could reply. Giovanni heard him moving about, then felt the hearse jolt forward.

Theresa groaned, and he groped for her in the darkness. "It's all right," he said, finding her hand, "we're going home."

"Where's René?" she asked, "I thought I heard his voice…"

"He's here," said Giovanni. "He's…driving the wagon…"

He fumbled through the darkness, his fingers brushing against a lantern. He lit it and set it down beside Theresa. Her face looked unnaturally pale and was shining with sweat. Giovanni felt fear rising up in his throat. What if she died despite their best efforts? What if the hearse reached Lyon with one corpse in it? How could he face his aunt and uncle? How could he tell them that he'd failed to keep Theresa safe? Giovanni lay down beside her, putting his arms around her, holding her close. She closed her eyes, and he could feel her breath against his neck. Perhaps sleeping would help her regain her strength. Perhaps if she slept, the wounds would heal faster. Giovanni held her, watching the candle flicker in the lantern, willing himself to stay awake.

~xXx~

Rosalie was hugging him, and he found that he was hugging her back. He had unintentionally lifted her up off the ground, and she was giggling into his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said, setting her back down, aware that he was blushing.

"It's fine," she said, smiling up at him.

Hans was calling him, shouting at him to help with the tents, but Heracles ignored him. He could pitch a tent any time, and there were plenty of other roustabouts. He did not get to see Rosalie often, and he was thrilled that she was happy to see him. "Have you eaten yet?" she asked.

"No."

"Come on." She took hold of his hand, "I'll make you something."

"So long as it isn't potatoes."

Rosalie laughed, shaking her head at him. "No," she said.

"Heracles! This tent won't pitch itself!"

"Oh Hans, we have enough help." He heard Frieda's voice before she came waddling into view. "Let him see his sweetheart! It's been half a year!" Frieda nodded to him and Rosalie. "You have tonight off, Heracles," she said, "but you'd better be prepared to work extra tomorrow."

"Thank you, Frieda."

He followed Rosalie to her little house and watched as she cooked, sitting beside her and helping her peel vegetables. They talked as they ate, watching the sun sink below the horizon. The sky was streaked with red and gold, and the colors splashed across Rosalie's face. She seemed prettier than he'd remembered. She looked at him now, reaching into one of her pockets and producing a little bundle of papers.

"I still have your letters," she said, handing them to him.

"Did you like them?"

"Yes," she said. "Will you read one to me?"

"I thought Clopin read them to you."

"He did, but I want to hear your voice."

Heracles unfolded one of the letters, noticing that Rosalie moved closer to him as he did so. " 'Dearest Rosalie,' " he began, " 'the sun sets in Munich, and it looks the same as it does in Lyon, but I still wish you were here to share it with me…' " He glanced at her. She was staring at him, her head tilted up, her lips so close to his he could almost feel them. He let the letter fall from his hand and closed his eyes. He kissed her, momentarily surprised at how soft and warm her lips were. He slipped his arms around her waist, feeling the curve of her hip beneath his hand.

She touched his face, cradling it in her hands. He let her run her hands along his face, neck, and shoulders, let her explore him. She tilted her head to the side, almost inviting him to kiss her neck, and he did, savoring the softness of her skin. He felt her grab his hands, guide them to her blouse, and he found himself fumbling with the buttons. They seemed too small, and she brushed his hands away, undoing the buttons with ease. He touched her gently, lightly, and he felt her pushing him. He lay down, letting her climb on top of him. He wanted to tell her that he loved her, wanted to whisper her name, but his voice seemed to catch in his throat. The moment seemed so beautiful in the silence; speaking would only spoil it.

"Get off of my mother, you pervert!"

He did not hear the footsteps and was not even fully aware of what exactly was happening until he felt Pierre kick him in the shoulder. Rosalie scrambled up, placing herself between him and Pierre; her once-graceful hands were slipping along the buttons on her blouse. "Pierre, stop it!" she shouted, her voice more irritated than embarrassed.

Heracles sat up, noticing Marie standing behind her brother. He barely noticed that Rosalie and Pierre had begun to argue; Marie was staring at him, something wild and frightened in her eyes. She stepped back, gripping her shawl. She had begun to cry. She turned and fled, and Heracles found himself scrambling after her, ignoring Rosalie and Pierre, who seemed oblivious to him anyway.

"Marie!" calling her name was futile, but he found himself doing it anyway. He caught up with her, grabbing her shoulder. She turned to him, tears streaming down her face, her shoulders shaking. "What's wrong?"

She shook her head, brushing his hand away from her shoulder. "Marie, I'm sorry you saw that…but…your mother and I…well…" She stared at him, continuing to shake her head. Her distress hadn't been caused by seeing him with Rosalie. Heracles wasn't sure if he felt relieved or not. Something was bothering Marie, and she was either unable or unwilling to tell him. "What's wrong, then?"

She buried her face in her hands and began to sob. Heracles put his arms around her, and she did not pull away. She sobbed loudly and incoherently into his shoulder, making strange, guttural sounds. She was shaking, and he found himself holding her tighter, almost afraid she'd shatter. He held her, staring down at her, and he felt frightened. He wondered now if something had happened to Marie. Had someone hurt her? He found himself thinking of the Russian boy, and suddenly wished he had told Rosalie about what he'd seen.

"Marie," he said, tilting her chin, forcing her to look at his face. "Tell me what's wrong. I will make it right. Tell me."

She stepped out of his grip, wiping her eyes on the backs of her hands. She pointed to her stomach. "Are you hurt?" She shook her head, biting her lower lip in what was either frustration or embarrassment. She moved her arms now, miming rocking a baby, then pointed to her stomach again. "Oh God…you're pregnant?"

She could see the shock in his eyes and began to cry again, burying her face in her hands and turning away from him. "Damn it! Marie, no – I didn't mean…" He moved, standing in front of her and tilted her face up to his again. "Who is the father?" She moved her hands, doing something with her fingers that he couldn't understand. "Is – is it that Russian boy? The one missing two fingers?" She nodded, holding up her left hand, mimicking the boy's missing digits. Heracles sighed, "where is he?"

Marie stared at him, blinking. "The boy, where is he?" She pointed towards the caravans that marked the Russian Gypsies' camp. "Come on," said Heracles, taking her hand. She took a deep breath and led him into the camp, making her way towards a large caravan at its center.

~xXx~

"Infected? What do you mean, infected?"

Giovanni was panicking, and his terror would only spread to Theresa. René rubbed his forehead. He had treated her wounds as quickly as he could, but now she was shivering and gasping for breath, and the wound in her back had taken on a bluish color, like a bruise. "Calm down," said René. He glanced over at the woods. "I can go see if I can find some herbs for her. You stay here with her. I'll be back soon."

Giovanni nodded and climbed back up into the hearse. He handed René the lantern, and René turned towards the woods. He plunged into them, shoving through the thick underbrush, scanning the ground. He wasn't sure if he could find the proper herbs in the increasingly dim light, but he would not give up without trying. Theresa could very well be dying; he would not let her.

He was surprised when he found what he was looking for. He dropped to his knees, saying a quick prayer, thanking God, before ripping up handfuls of the herb. He wasn't sure how much he needed. The wound was relatively small. Too many herbs wouldn't be bad, would it? It wouldn't kill Theresa? No, more herbs would speed her recovery. He turned, staring out at the trees, momentarily disoriented. What direction had he come from? Where was the main road?

"Giovanni!" he shouted.

"René?" Giovanni's response was delayed, but he moved towards the sound of his voice. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

"No," he yelled, "just lost. Keep talking!"

"I'm over here!"

René emerged onto the main road, breathing a sigh of relief before rushing towards the hearse. He climbed up into it. Theresa looked terrifyingly pale, and she was shuddering, gasping for breath. She stared at him, smiling faintly as she recognized him. She was still able to see him and know who he was, she was still able to smile at him, and this gave him endless amounts of hope. René pulled the blankets off of her, gently nudging her onto her stomach. "Hold her arms," he said.

Giovanni nodded, obediently gripping Theresa's arms and pinning them to the floor. René set the lantern down and drew his knife. He would have to reopen the wound, and it would hurt a great deal. It was still bleeding beneath the stitches, and the blood would need to be released. He undid the stitches as gently as he could, ignoring Theresa's wail of pain. He pressed the scraps of cloth he'd brought along to use as bandages to the wound. The blood seemed darker and thicker than normal. It oozed out of her slowly, and he mopped it up. The blood gradually became thinner, more normal, and he found himself sighing with relief.

"Will she be all right?"

René nodded. He took some of the herbs and began crushing them, grinding them between his fingers and pressing them into the wound. Theresa cried out again, and he felt her muscles tighten. She could still feel pain, could still respond to it; she just might live through this, and René found himself praying for her. "I have some brandy in that canteen," he said, nodding towards the rear of the hearse. Giovanni crawled across the floor, grabbing the pack and pulling out the canteen. He uncorked it and handed it to René. René splashed it into the wound, making Theresa scream even louder.

"The dying don't feel their pain," he said, glancing at Giovanni. "If she's screaming, it's because she isn't dying."

He managed to sew the wound shut. The pain had somehow brought strength back to Theresa, and she thrashed and cried. Giovanni had to hold her still, gripping her arms and apologizing to her over and over. René finally finished, wiping his bloody hands on his trousers. He stared down at Theresa, suddenly exhausted. He barely noticed when Giovanni climbed out of the back of the hearse and went to take the reins. He barely noticed when the hearse began to move. He draped the blanket over Theresa and leaned against the wall, holding the lantern in his lap to keep it from falling.

"René?"

"I'm here, Theresa."

She smiled at him. Her smile was faint, sleepy, but it was a smile nonetheless. She moved, shifting beneath the blankets, and her hand emerged, reaching for his. He took her hand. She felt soft and warm, and she squeezed his hand. She still had some strength left in her. René smiled at her, and in spite of everything, he felt something he could only identify as happiness. He was here with Theresa, he was holding her hand. She would live, and they would make it to Lyon.

~xXx~

Heracles was surprised to find the Russian boy outside of his caravan. He was with another man; they bore such a striking resemblance to each other, they could only be brothers. They appeared to be arguing, shouting at each other in Russian. The boy saw them approach, and pointed to Marie, saying something to his brother.

Marie stared up at him, biting her lip, her eyes desperate. It was not his place to tell the boy that she was pregnant. It was none of his affair, but if Marie was too afraid to do it, then Heracles would. He patted her shoulder and approached the boy. He stared at the boy, not knowing what to say. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Dmitri." The boy pointed to himself. "You are the strong man from the circus, da? Friend of Marie's?" He glanced at Marie, noticing that she was wringing her hands nervously. "Marie, what is wrong?"

Marie squirmed, letting her hands fall to her sides. She took a deep breath, then pointed to Dmitri. She mimed rocking a baby in her arms, then pointed to her stomach. Dmitri blinked, staring at her in shock. The man beside him said something in Russian. Marie went to him now, taking his hand and placing it on her stomach.

"You…you are to be having baby?" he said, "it – it is being my baby?" Marie nodded.

The other man said something in Russian, and Dmitri spun around, his eyes blazing with fury. He shouted at the man and leapt at him, knocking him over. Marie gasped, backing away, her hands in front of her face as if shielding blows meant for her. Heracles grabbed Dmitri, pulling him off of his older brother. "You apologize, Piotr!" screamed Dmitri, thrashing, struggling to break free of Heracles's grasp and attack his brother again. "She is not whore! She is good girl, and I am loving her very much!"

Dmitri's struggles ceased rather suddenly, and Heracles suddenly wondered if he'd hurt the boy. He let go of Dmitri, watching him warily. Dmitri glared at his brother, then turned to Marie. He approached her, reaching for her. She came to him slowly, with hesitation, and he put his arms around her. "I am to honoring you," he said, "I am to marry you, and to honoring you." She stared at him, her eyes wide with disbelief. "Come, I am to ask Pierre for permission."

Mentioning Pierre jolted Heracles's memory. He wondered if Rosalie was looking for him, or was she still arguing with Pierre? God, Pierre would hate him. He remembered the hate and anger in Pierre's eyes; he'd looked at him as though he was molesting his mother. The night, which had started so wonderfully, was quickly turning sour, and Heracles followed Marie and Dmitri back to Rosalie's house, praying it didn't get any worse.

~xXx~

"Pierre, you had no right – "

"I saw what he was doing to you, and I will kill him if he touches you again!" Pierre was shaking, his hands balled into fists. Rosalie glanced down at the knife in his belt. Even with it, he was no match for Heracles. Pierre was thin and still short for his age. Heracles could probably kill him with one blow if he wanted to. If she did take Heracles as a lover, it was none of Pierre's business. The very idea that he had any say in what she did behind closed doors was absurd; she was the parent, he was the child.

"I am a grown woman, Pierre," she said, "and if I choose to be with a man, it is my business and not yours."

"I saw – "

"I know what you saw!" she found herself shouting again, but she didn't care. Pierre was stubborn. His father had been stubborn, and she herself was stubborn to a certain extent. "Heracles was not hurting me. He is a good man, Pierre."

Pierre was shaking his head. "No, no…Mama…"

He had not called her 'Mama' in years, not since he was small, and she suddenly saw the tears in his eyes. She reached for him, and he nearly fell into her arms, pressing his face against her shoulder, as he'd done so many times when he was a child. "What's wrong, Pierre?" she said, rubbing his back, feeling panic rise within her.

"I don't want him to hurt you," he said, his voice thin and gasping. She could feel his fingers digging into her back and was painfully aware that he was missing the little finger on his left hand.

"He won't," she said, "he's a good man, and he won't – "

"I know what happened."

Rosalie felt her blood run cold. He couldn't possibly know. She'd kept it a secret, hadn't told anyone except Clopin, Cassandra, and Esmerelda. They knew better than to tell anyone. Surely they hadn't told Pierre; it was none of his business, none of his affair. She didn't want him to know; knowing would only hurt him. She'd wanted to spare him the pain, she'd wanted to protect him. She swallowed, shaking her head. "I – I'm not sure what you mean – "

"I overheard Clopin and Cassandra," he said, "after it happened. I know what those men did to you, and…I'm so sorry, Mama…I'm so sorry I didn't stop it…"

She shushed him, closing her eyes. Hearing him talk about, knowing that it was making him weep, was like a knife through her heart. "Pierre, you were only thirteen," she said, "they would have killed you."

"But I didn't help you – "

"Shhh…" She lifted his head up off of her shoulder, wiping his tears away with her thumbs. "You did," she said, "you kept your sister safe." She was surprised that she didn't feel the usual pain and terror that came with thinking of that night. The memories did not come flooding back to torment her. She was surprised that she felt so strong, so sure of herself. She wondered if it was Heracles's doing, or possibly Esmerelda's. "Knowing that you and your sister were safe kept me alive, Pierre."

"I will never let anyone hurt you."

"I know," she said, kissing his forehead, "but Heracles is not going to hurt me." Pierre nodded. "Does…does Marie know?"

He shook his head. "No. I didn't tell her."

"All right," she said, rubbing his shoulders. "I love you, Pierre, with all my heart."

"I love you, Mama."


	24. Still 1505, Part XIX

STILL 1505…

She had not immediately realized that Heracles and Marie had left, and as she let go of Pierre, she looked around, wondering where they had gone. Pierre was wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands, shifting uncomfortably, trying to make it seem as though he hadn't been crying. She was about to turn and speak to him when she heard the footsteps.

Much to Rosalie's surprise, Marie and Heracles were accompanied by Dmitri. Dmitri nodded to her and moved past her, approaching Pierre. "Pierre," he said, "I am having a question to ask of you, because you are the brother of Marie."

"Oh…well…fine, ask it." Pierre looked thoroughly confused, and Rosalie saw Marie wringing her hands out of the corner of her eye. Marie looked absolutely terrified; Heracles had his hand on her shoulder, trying to be reassuring, but it looked as though Marie wasn't even aware of it. Rosalie looked back at Dmitri, noticing that he was staring at Pierre with intensity and confidence.

"I am wanting to marry Marie," he said, shifting his shoulders, standing up straighter.

"What?" Pierre was staring at Dmitri as if he'd suddenly sprouted wings. Marie was rubbing her forehead, shaking her head in embarrassment. "Why are you asking me?"

"Marie does not have father," said Dmitri. "You are…" he paused, frowning as he groped for the correct words, "only man in her life for to give her away."

Pierre turned away from Dmitri, looking at Rosalie, thoroughly puzzled. "Is it even my decision?" he asked.

"Of course not," said Rosalie. "It's Marie's." She went to Marie. Marie bit her lip and wrung her hands nervously. "Marie," she said, "do you want to marry Dmitri?" Marie nodded. Rosalie glanced back at Dmitri. He was watching her, his eyes no longer confident by desperate. She didn't dislike Dmitri, she didn't hate him. She supposed that if Marie loved him that should be enough…but could he care for her? He didn't have a proper trade; his missing fingers branded him a thief in Lyon, and no one would bother listening to his explanation. Could Marie and Dmitri survive based on what little she made minding a rich woman's children?

"I don't have much for dowry," said Dmitri, "but if you give me time, I can to repay you."

Perhaps it wasn't the best match. Perhaps Marie was just being young and silly and too in love to see that Dmitri couldn't provide for her. They were both young, they could certainly afford to wait until Dmitri found steady work, or until someone better came along. Marie deserved better. Marie was staring at her, wringing her hands, biting her lower lip so hard she'd drawn blood. She pulled a kerchief from her pocket and pressed it to her mouth.

"Rosalie," said Heracles, "I know it's none of my business, but I think they would be happy together."

She sighed. It was happening much too fast. The night was spiraling out of her control, becoming too wild and hectic. She would need to think about Marie and Dmitri. The sudden desperation in Dmitri's eyes bothered her, as did Marie's nervousness. Rosalie rubbed her forehead. Somewhere inside of her, a small voice was telling her to let go. Marie was no longer a child. She was a grown woman. She could make her own decisions. She could fall in love and marry whom she wanted to. If she chose Dmitri, it was because she loved him, and he loved her back.

Marie grabbed her hand suddenly. She had dropped the handkerchief, letting it flutter to the ground like a wounded bird. Marie was staring at her, her dark eyes frighteningly intense. Marie began to move her hands, making familiar motions; motions that meant 'pregnant' and 'baby.' Rosalie stared, unaware that her mouth had fallen open. Marie – her daughter, her only daughter – was pregnant out of wedlock? It explained her nervousness and Dmitri's desperation; they wanted to get married quickly for the baby's sake.

The world seemed to spin unpleasantly, and Marie was shaking. Rosalie combed her memories frantically, struggling to find the place when this had happened. Had she been too absorbed in her own pain to see Marie and Dmitri? How could she have let this happen? Hadn't she taught Marie about men? Hadn't she told her to remain pure until her wedding night?

"You got my sister pregnant?" Pierre was approaching Dmitri, his hands balled into fists, and Rosalie suddenly wanted everyone to leave. The confusion and desire to be alone overwhelmed her; it was as though her brain was filling too quickly, as though she was drowning in information. "You stupid, filthy, pervert – "

"No, please," said Dmitri, backing away, holding up his hands, "I am to honoring Marie, I am to loving her most very much, I am wanting to marry her – "

"God damn Russian pervert! You took advantage of her! What, you couldn't keep it in your pants, so you had to ruin her like this? You God damn, stupid – "

Marie was glaring at Pierre, reading his lips, understanding every hateful word that he was now screaming at Dmitri. She grabbed him, jerking him back roughly, and slapped him. Pierre's head snapped to the side, and Rosalie suddenly noticed that a crowd had gathered, undoubtedly attracted by the yelling. Heracles was trying to shoo them away, trying to make them leave, demanding privacy. Marie was moving her hands, making signs that meant 'stop it,' 'I love him,' 'I consented,' and 'you have no right.' Pierre was rubbing his cheek, staring at her in disbelief. Marie continued, 'he loves me,' 'he wants to marry me.'

"Pierre." Rosalie had found her voice, and the sound of it surprised her for a moment. She put her hand on Pierre's shoulder. "If Marie and Dmitri wish to get married, then…then they can." She looked at Marie and Dmitri, suddenly feeling exhausted, as though she would pass out. "We will talk about the wedding in the morning," she said.

Dmitri nodded. "Thank you," he said, "I will come back tomorrow." He looked at Marie, and Rosalie could see the love in his eyes. She found it comforting. Dmitri was marrying Marie because he loved her, not simply because he had gotten her pregnant. He turned and left, and Rosalie could hear voices asking him questions in Russian. Marie hugged her. Rosalie closed her eyes; she could feel Marie's relief, could feel her the weight being lifted from her heart.

~xXx~

Giovanni wondered how far off dawn was. The full moon, combined with a lantern, cast enough light on the road. The mule could make its way, and it did so slowly. Giovanni was far too tired to urge it to move faster, and he feared that bumping the hearse would cause Theresa pain.

He did not like the idea of her back there with René. He doubted that René would do anything inappropriate; after all, Theresa was still in pain. If he even so much as touched her, she'd scream reflexively. The roadway was completely and totally silent. Giovanni thought he could hear René snoring in the back of the hearse. He wondered if he should stop for the night. No one was pursuing them, and they would make their way to Lyon unharmed.

He tugged the reins, and the mule stopped. Giovanni unhitched it, wondering what he should do with it. It would wander off if he just left it untied, but what was there to tie it to? He led it to the side of the hearse, making sure it was near the grassy side of the road. He tied the reins to one of the front wheels; the mule wouldn't wander away, and hopefully, no one would come and steal it.

Giovanni opened the back of the hearse and was stunned to find René holding Theresa's hand. He was sitting about a foot away from her, his knees curled to his chest. He blinked sleepily, looking at Giovanni, letting go of Theresa's hand quickly. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"It's too dark," said Giovanni, climbing into the back of the hearse. He gently nudged Theresa, creating space between her and René. He lay down between them, putting his arm around Theresa. "We should rest for the night anyway," he said. Theresa groaned in her sleep and shifted. Her hand seemed to reach out, searching for René's. René looked away, busying himself with shutting the hearse's door. "Don't touch my cousin," said Giovanni, tightening his grip on Theresa as they were plunged into darkness.

"I'm sorry," said René, "she was frightened. I was only trying to comfort her."

"Keep your hands off her," said Giovanni, "or I'll cut them off."

~xXx~

"You're back awfully early."

Heracles sighed. He'd hoped to slip into his caravan unnoticed, but Frieda was sitting on the steps, waiting for him. He was surprised to see her alone; for the past six months or so, she and Quasimodo had been nearly inseparable. He wondered if she knew about the argument. After all, Pierre had had no qualms with shouting at the top of his voice, and Heracles had recognized some of his fellow roustabouts in the crowd that had gathered.

"I could use a drink," he said.

She nodded to his caravan, and he climbed the steps, scooping her up as he did so. He opened the door and stepped inside, setting Frieda down on the floor. He lit a lantern and sat down beside Frieda. He reached for the trunk near him and opened it, pulling out a bottle of brandy. "I heard shouting," said Frieda, watching as he uncorked the bottle and drank, letting the bitter scorching liquid pour down his throat.

"It happened too fast," he said. "I was with Rosalie, and I was kissing her, but…Pierre and Marie saw…"

"Oh dear."

"Pierre started shouting and Marie fled," he continued, taking another swig. "I went after Marie, and she was crying. She was so frightened and upset…"

"Because you were with Rosalie?"

He shook his head. "Marie is pregnant," he said. "There's this Russian boy she's been hanging around, he's the father. She didn't know what to do, so I went with her to find him and tell him. He said that he would marry her…and then decided that he needed Pierre's permission…"

Frieda was shaking her head, and she reached for the bottle. He handed it to her. "Sweet of him to marry her," she said. "What did Pierre say?"

"Pierre can't tell Marie who she can and can't marry," said Heracles. "But he was furious when he found out that Marie was pregnant."

"He's always been protective of her. Ever since they were little. Remember, he used to hold her hand everywhere they went?"

"He was afraid she'd get lost."

"How does Rosalie feel about Marie?"

"Well, she's disappointed that she's pregnant, of course. But she says she'll let them get married. They seem to love each other."

Frieda took a long swig from the bottle, grimacing at the taste of the brandy. She handed it back to him. "Hans says that the Russian Gypsies are leaving in a few days. Is Marie going with them, or is the boy staying here?"

Heracles shrugged. "I don't know. I didn't know that they were leaving. I doubt Rosalie will let Marie leave…" He sighed, staring down at the bottle, suddenly feeling exhausted. Too much was happening. It swirled around, thick as smoke, and Heracles felt as though he was suffocating. He wished that Rosalie was with him. Holding her, kissing her, would make him feel better. Thinking about her seemed to help, to ease the pressure within him. He barely noticed when Frieda left. He laid out his bedroll and lay down, extinguishing the lantern. He lay there in the darkness, wishing that Rosalie was beside him, longing for her. The moment he'd shared with her had been too brief, too fleeting, but he recalled it perfectly, and he replayed it in his mind.

~xXx~

René woke before daybreak and climbed out of the back of the hearse as quietly as he could. Giovanni stirred and Theresa groaned in her sleep, but neither one woke. René found the mule and hitched it up to the hearse. He urged it on, ignoring the chill that hung in the air. He had destroyed his coat to make bandages for Theresa and hadn't thought to bring another one. He hunched over, wishing that his soldier's uniform was warmer.

The sun rose slowly, and the mule plodded forward slowly but surely. They would reach Lyon in a few days at this rate, and René found himself wondering what he would do once they arrived. Giovanni and Theresa would go back to their families, but René had nothing waiting for him in Lyon. Everything he'd ever really known was in Paris, and he couldn't return. He thought of his mother; she was probably reading the letter he'd left her. He wondered if she was ashamed of him, if she was disappointed that he'd rescued a Gypsy girl and been kicked out of the army. Would she come to Lyon to look for him? Or was she so ashamed of him that she'd never search for him? Was he dead to her?

He found himself thinking of Jean-Claude. He would be waking up beside Cosette, kissing her cheek as he left her to go to work. He would be patrolling the streets of Paris, his head held high; he would undoubtedly be proud of killing Theresa. In the evening, he would return to Cosette, and they would make love. What if she conceived again only to miscarry again? Would Jean-Claude realize that he'd been wrong about Theresa? Would he feel repentant? Or would he continue to blame her, accusing her of cursing him from beyond the grave?

If René stayed in Lyon, he would see Theresa more often. The thought made him happy, if only for a few moments. Perhaps she'd make a full recovery; perhaps she'd even be able to dance again in time. It would be most disappointing if the wound in her leg prevented her from dancing. She was so lovely when she danced, so happy and graceful. René remembered the way she'd held his hand the night before, gripping it, smiling at him. Perhaps she loved him as much as he loved her. He knew that the idea was too outrageous, that she'd never love him, but he clung to it nonetheless. If she did love him, perhaps he would marry her; perhaps her father would give his consent. He could spend the rest of his life in Lyon with Theresa by his side. The idea was too farfetched, too fantastic, but he loved it almost as much as he loved Theresa.

~xXx~

Dmitri looked ragged and exhausted, and Rosalie noticed that he was wearing the same clothes he'd had on the night before. He looked as though he'd slept outside, but he smiled at her and nodded politely when she opened the door to let him in. He sat down at the table beside Marie, reaching out and taking hold of her hand.

"I am not having much for dowry," he said. He reached into a pocket and withdrew something too small for Rosalie to see. He stared down into whatever was in his palm. "This used to belong to my mother," he said, "it is made of real silver, and you may have it for part of dowry."

He handed her a small, silver ring. It was a plain, ordinary band with a pale blue stone set in it. Rosalie stared at it, then shook her head. "No," she said, "I can't take this from you – "

"Please, is all I have for dowry."

She shook her head again. "No, Dmitri. I don't want a dowry." She spoke slowly and clearly, making sure that both Dmitri and Marie could understand her. They were both staring at her, their eyes wide with shock. It was unheard of to turn down a dowry, and Rosalie wondered if it was improper to do so. Still, Dmitri had practically nothing. Why should he give anything to Rosalie if it was Marie he needed to take care of? Why would Rosalie need a ring? "Give the ring to Marie," she said.

She herself had never had a wedding band. It was far more common to see wealthier, more respectable members of society with them. She liked the idea of Marie having one. Dmitri turned to Marie now, handing her the ring. She took it, slipping it onto her finger. It looked natural, as though it belonged there. Marie was smiling at Dmitri, making the hand motions that meant 'thank you.'

"Where will you be living once you're married?" asked Rosalie.

The smile faded from Dmitri's face, and he looked away. "I am not having proper house right now," he said. "I used to be living with Piotr and Anja, but they are leaving next day. I am not wanting to go with them. Piotr says terrible things, and we are arguing. I can…how do you say? I can to make proper house for Marie. I am needing some time…"

Building a house would take time, not to mention money. While Dmitri had all of nine months to build a house, he didn't have the money to do it. Rosalie looked around her own house, thinking. Her house only had one room that she and Marie currently shared. She supposed that Dmitri could live with them, though she didn't particularly like the idea. Dmitri and Marie deserved their privacy, and she had no desire to see them being intimate with each other. Besides, Marie would be having a baby. The shack was barely big enough for three people. It would be downright uncomfortable once the baby came.

Heracles had his own caravan. He owned it outright, and if he left the circus, he could take it with him. Rosalie wondered now if she wanted him to stay here with her. She liked him enough; seeing him every day would be wonderful. He liked his life, though. He liked traveling. She didn't want to be the one to take it away from him. She didn't want to force him to abandon the only life he'd ever known just for her.

Perhaps she could go with him. Marie and Pierre were the only reasons she stayed in Lyon, and they were both grown now. Marie was getting married. She didn't need her mother to care for her, not when she had a husband. Still, Rosalie didn't like the idea of leaving Marie while she was pregnant. What if something happened? What if Marie miscarried or had an accident? She had to stay for Marie, at least until the baby was born.

"Dmitri, you are going to live with us for now," said Rosalie. He started to protest, saying that it was improper, but she held up her hand and he was silent. "I'm going to talk with a friend of mine."


	25. Still 1505, Part XX

STILL 1505…

Theresa had seemed so strong the night before, and it had given Giovanni hope. She lay in the back of the hearse listlessly, her face pale and her eyelids drooping. Giovanni sat beside her, stroking her hair, biting his lip worriedly and waiting for Rene to return. He wished that he at least knew what Rene was doing; the hearse had come to a stop and Rene had told them not to leave it.

The door swung open and Rene climbed up into the back of the hearse. He was carrying something, and when he drew closer, Giovanni saw that it was a bottle of milk. "There's a farmhouse nearby," said Rene, "I was able to buy this from them. It's for Theresa."

Giovanni took the bottle, examining it. Milk was expensive. The farmers he'd worked for in Lyon wouldn't even share it. "It'll help her regain her strength," continued Rene. He reached for Theresa now. "Come on, help me sit her up."

Giovanni pushed Rene's hands away. Regardless of Rene's intentions, he didn't want him touching Theresa. Giovanni slipped his hands under Theresa's arms and gently pulled her into a seated position. She groaned, and he shifted her, trying to put as little weight as possible onto her wounded leg. Rene uncapped the bottle and held it to Theresa's lips. She reached for him, her hand shaking, and helped him hold the bottle. She drank slowly, consuming half the bottle. She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, staring sleepily at Rene.

"Thank you," she said. Despite her tiredness, Giovanni could hear the sincerity in her voice and see the adoration in her eyes. She loved Rene, and this suddenly frightened him. True, Rene had saved her life, and she was indebted to him; any woman would worship such a man. Still, what did Rene want from her? What would he do to get it? Would he take her, claiming that she owed him her life, that she had to repay him? Worse, would she let him? Were her eyes so clouded by love that she wouldn't be able to see his true intentions until it was too late?

Giovanni would find some other way to repay Rene for his kindness. He would not let him have Theresa, would not let him hurt her. Rene was rummaging through his pack, pulling out some bread and breaking it into pieces. He handed a piece to Theresa and she ate it slowly, gratefully.

"How much further is Lyon?" asked Giovanni.

"Another day at least," said Rene. He finished his own piece of bread. Giovanni nodded. "Do you think you could drive for a bit? I didn't sleep well last night…"

It would be unfair to deny Rene his sleep, but Giovanni hated the idea of him alone with Theresa. "If he touches you, I want you to scream as loud as you can," whispered Giovanni. Theresa looked up at him, frowning.

"I don't intend to do anything improper," said Rene, his voice angry.

"I can't help it if soldiers are known for their wandering hands."

"I saved both of your lives, and this is how you treat me?"

"Giovanni, stop it." Theresa's voice was faint, but she sat up, lifting her head off of his shoulder. "I trust Rene. He's a good person."

Giovanni sighed. Arguing was pointless; it only slowed them down. Arguing took up precious time that could be spent getting home. "I'm sorry," said Giovanni. He climbed out of the hearse, shutting the door carefully. He went to the mule and re-hitched it, forcing himself not to think about Rene and Theresa.

~xXx~

He'd woken up with a pounding headache, but he'd gotten up and started working without complaint. The tents would not pitch themselves, and the crisp morning air made him feel better, if only a little bit. Heracles pounded the stakes into the ground, listening to the chatter of the other roustabouts. Their conversations seemed to drift closer and closer to the events of the previous night, and he found himself wishing he'd never left his caravan.

"Heracles?"

He'd been too lost in thought to notice Rosalie's approach. "Oh. Hello." Heracles was suddenly aware of the dirt that covered his hands and wiped them on his pants.

"I need to talk to you."

"Of course." He glanced around, suddenly wondering where they could go for privacy. Would it be improper to bring her back to his caravan? Well, he'd had Frieda there the other night; Frieda was only a friend, though. He harbored no desires for her.

"Here, Heracles." Quasimodo was approaching, motioning for Heracles to hand him the stakes and the hammer. "I'll finish this." He nodded to Rosalie. "Good morning, Rosalie."

"Good morning."

"Thank you." Heracles led Rosalie to his caravan, desperately hoping that it wasn't a complete and total mess. "We can talk in here," he said, opening the door for her and following her inside. He lit a lamp, relieved to see that he'd had enough sense the previous night to put away the brandy bottle. He dragged a few stools out of the corner where they were stacked. "How are you?" he asked.

Rosalie sat down, and he sat opposite her. "I…I have no idea," she said, shaking her head. "This is happening too fast."

"I know. Listen, though, if you need any help – "

"Actually, I do." Rosalie was fiddling with her hands. It made him remember Marie, the way she'd wrung her hands in anxiety. "Dmitri and Marie need a place to live," said Rosalie. "I want to give them my house."

"But where will you live?"

"Well…I was wondering…if perhaps you'd like to stay in Lyon for a bit…"

Heracles could only stare at her. Did she really want him to stay with her? Did she really want to build a life with him? Abandoning the circus would be difficult at first; it would be hard to adjust to a stationary life. Of course, Hans would be upset, but Frieda would understand. They could always find another strong man; Heracles knew that he wasn't irreplaceable. Besides, he was getting older and the weights seemed to be getting heavier. Maybe it was time for him to retire.

"Just until the baby comes," continued Rosalie, "I – I'd go with you if you didn't want to leave the circus. I'd just like to stay with Marie until the baby comes."

"Of course," said Heracles. He reached out and took her hands. She did not pull away, but wove her fingers between his. "I would love to stay with you."

"Thank you," she said, "oh, thank you so much!"

She hugged him. He wrapped his arms around her. He could feel the curves of her body even though she was pressed flat against him. He could feel her heart beating, he could smell her. He closed his eyes, wishing the moment could last forever.

~xXx~

The back of the hearse had frightened her at first, but she'd grown used to it. It really wasn't so bad. It was dark, yes, but warm. The pain in her leg and shoulder seemed to come and go; there were moments when she felt nothing, but they were often followed by moments of pure agony. Rene was sitting in the back of the hearse with her, holding the lantern. His head drooped forward, resting against his chest as he attempted to get comfortable enough to sleep.

"Lie down," said Theresa. The back of the hearse was far bigger than it had initially looked. She'd moved over, her uninjured shoulder touching the wall, to create space for Rene.

Rene shook his head. "No," he said, "your cousin…I mean, I don't want to appear improper…"

"Giovanni's being stupid," she said, "stupid and unreasonable."

Rene lay down, but he did so with reluctance, and he pressed himself against the opposite wall, creating a huge gap between them. Theresa watched him as he set the lamp down carefully. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

"I'm all right," she said.

"The wounds, do they hurt at all?"

"It comes and goes." She was tempted to edge closer to him. She wanted to hold his hand again. Giovanni would disapprove, though, and she refrained. "Thank you."

He looked at her, turning his head. "What?"

"You know what I'm talking about," she said, "you pulled the arrows out and sewed the wounds shut. You saved my life. Thank you."

"You don't need to thank me," he said. He closed his eyes, smiling faintly, drifting into sleep. "I wouldn't have let you die. You're far too pretty to be a corpse."

She watched him, not knowing what to say. She liked him enough, liked talking to him, liked being with him. Part of her wondered if he really did feel something for her, if he did indeed have a heart. Perhaps he did, and perhaps there was love in it for her. Theresa closed her eyes, wishing that she could hold Rene's hand as she drifted into sleep.


	26. Still 1505, Part XXI

STILL 1505…

He had to remind himself that Marie was no longer a little girl, that she was old enough to marry. The wedding was a quick one, as all Gypsy weddings were. Rosalie joined her daughter's hand with that of the boy she was about to marry. The couple drank from the same cup, then smashed it against the ground. Marie was smiling, her happiness infectious, and Quasimodo found himself glancing at Frieda. He'd set her on his shoulder so that she could see above the crowd; she cheered with the rest of the crowd, clapping her hands, calling out her congratulations to the new couple.

Food was eaten, wine drunk, and Dierk reached for his fiddle. The music filled the air, and Quasimodo wondered if Marie ever wished that she could hear. She had been deaf her entire life, had never heard a single sound. Did she watch people dancing and wish that she could hear the music? If she did feel that way, she hid it, or perhaps she was too happy to care. Her new husband embraced her, kissing her cheek, looking at her with love and tenderness in his eyes. He danced with her, guiding her along.

"They're a sweet couple," said Frieda.

"I've forgotten his name."

"Dmitri."

Quasimodo nodded, watching as the rest of the crowd began to join in the dance. Brunhilde and Conradine skipped and twirled, laughing as they spun in unison. Other instruments were produced; flutes and drums joined in with the fiddle. Frieda leaned against him, sighing. "They grow up so fast," she said, "it seems like just yesterday you were carrying her out of the woods."

~xXx~

The sun had begun to set, and René insisted that they stop for the night. The mule was tired, and it wouldn't help them if it dropped dead from exhaustion. Giovanni sat in the back of the hearse, holding Theresa and watching René as he toasted bread over the small campfire he'd built. They ate in silence, and Giovanni found that he wasn't terribly hungry. Theresa had regained her appetite; she ate slowly, but ate her share and half of his. She finished the milk that René had bought her earlier.

"Hopefully we'll reach Lyon tomorrow evening," said René. He stomped out the campfire, tossing dirt over the smoldering ashes. He climbed back into the hearse. He shut the door, and the three of them sat around the lantern. "How are you feeling, Theresa?" he asked.

"I'm all right," she said.

"No pain?"

She shook her head. "It comes and goes. But it's getting better."

"Good."

Giovanni could feel sleep threatening to overtake him, and he struggled to stay awake, though he couldn't say why, exactly. René wouldn't do anything to Theresa, especially not with Giovanni between them. Theresa was saying something to him, telling him to lie down and go to sleep. He did so reluctantly, curling against her and holding her close.

~xXx~

He had often wished that Rosalie would dance with him, but tonight, he didn't mind her stillness so much. She stood beside him, holding his hand while she watched Marie and Dmitri. They looked so happy, so lost in each other's eyes. Regardless of the circumstances surrounding their marriage, they were in love, and they would be happy together. Dmitri had done the responsible thing, the right thing, and he'd done it out of love for Marie.

"They do make a good pair," said Rosalie, looking up at him.

He nodded. "I think they do." She moved closer to him, leaning against his shoulder, and he put his arm around her waist. Tonight Rosalie would be moving out of her small house; Marie and Dmitri would be moving into it. Rosalie would be living with Heracles in his caravan. The thought of it thrilled him and made him nervous at the same time. What if she changed her mind? What if she decided she'd rather not live with him? She was looking up at him now, something strange and seductive in her eyes, and he found himself leading her away from the crowd, towards his caravan.

They entered the caravan silently, and Heracles lit a lantern. He hung it from a hook in the ceiling, letting the light fill the room. Rosalie had moved some of her possessions in earlier in the day, and Heracles was momentarily surprised to see her trunk resting in the corner. He went to his own trunk now, pulling out two bedrolls. He spread them out, leaving a space between them. Pushing them together would be improper at this point; Rosalie might think him a pervert and leave if he did.

He looked over at her now, stunned to see that she'd turned away from him. Her back was to him, as though he wasn't even in the room. She was letting her hair down, undoing the carefully coiled bun at the nape of her neck. Her black hair spilled down over her shoulders, and she ran her hands through it. He watched as she undid the buttons on her blouse, sliding it off of her shoulders and placing it carefully on top of her trunk. He felt guilty for watching, but found himself unable to look away. He stepped towards her, and she glanced back at him. She was smiling.

He went to her, pulling his shirt off, letting it fall to the floor without a second thought. He took her in his arms; her body was so warm, so soft, it was almost unreal, like a dream. She closed her eyes as she kissed him. She took his hands and guided them, letting him touch her. He'd wanted this moment for so long, had practically ached for it; he felt her hands on his belt, undoing the buckle gracefully. His own hands slipped to her skirt. He felt a thin row of buttons along her hip and undid them slowly, carefully. They parted, each scrambling out of their clothes.

She stared at him, her eyes wandering over him curiously. Heracles found himself staring back, taking in her curves, wanting to touch her more than anything. She moved past him, sitting down on one of the bedrolls he'd laid out. He went to her, sitting beside her, and put his arms around her.

~xXx~

"René? Are you awake?"

He sat up, peering into the darkness. His eyes adjusted quickly, and he was surprised to see Theresa. She was sitting up, leaning against the wall. Despite the darkness, he could see the outline of her face, the curve of her chin, the bridge of her nose.

"Are you all right?" he whispered.

"I'm fine," she said, shifting. Giovanni lay between them; René could see his back rising and falling rhythmically as he slept. "I just can't sleep."

René climbed over Giovanni as quickly and gently as he could. Giovanni stirred, but did not wake; René was grateful. He sat down beside Theresa, leaving proper space between them. He had sat beside her just this way back in Notre Dame. In his mind's eye, he saw her as she once was. He saw the sunlight spilling through the stained glass windows, creating a kaleidoscope of color across her smile. "You in any pain?" he asked.

"A little. It isn't so bad." She shifted, and he felt her moving closer to him. Part of him wished that she wouldn't. If Giovanni woke, if he saw, he'd be furious, and rightly so. He'd grown up alongside Theresa, saw her as a little sister, and would protect her with the ferocity that only a brother can feel when he thinks his sibling is in danger. Theresa was extremely lucky to have him. "I don't feel tired."

She had spent most of the day asleep. René could feel her leaning on his shoulder and found himself wishing that they were back in Notre Dame. Notre Dame may have been a prison for Theresa, but it had peace and privacy. "Fair enough." He was tempted to stroke her hair, and he grip the wooden floor of the hearse to prevent himself from doing so. "We'll reach Lyon tomorrow evening. Do…do you have a boyfriend waiting there for you?"

"Of course not."

"Don't tell me Giovanni's scared them all away," he said. "You're far too pretty not to have at least ten suitors."

She giggled behind her hand, and even in the darkness he knew she was blushing. He suddenly felt her lips against his. He closed his eyes. Her lips were soft and warm, and he could feel her smiling. He broke away from her, pushing her back as gently as he could. "We shouldn't," he said, and Giovanni coughed in his sleep as if in agreement. "It's wrong."

"No, René," she said, "I love you. That's not wrong."

He wished that he could see her better. He could only see the dim outline of her face, he couldn't make out her features as clearly. He wished that he could see her, that he could look into her eyes and see what she was really feeling. "You – you shouldn't…"

"Why? Because you're a soldier, and everyone knows that soldiers have no hearts?" He felt her hand on his chest, her palm pressed flat against the spot above his heart. "You have a heart, René. I know you do."

He took her hand, bringing it to his face and kissing it. "I love you, Theresa."

~xXx~

He woke up to find René seated against the wall, still slumped over in sleep. Theresa lay beside him, her head resting against his lap. Giovanni shook himself awake and grabbed René by the shoulder. René's eyes flew open, as did Theresa's. René's eyes were startled, like those of a child who's just been caught doing something naughty.

"We need to talk," said Giovanni. He glanced at Theresa. She was sitting up slowly, rubbing her eyes.

"Giovanni," she said, "wait, it isn't what it looks like – "

Giovanni opened the back of the hearse and climbed out. He stood glaring up at René. René followed him, moving sluggishly. He closed the door, throwing a quick glance back at Theresa. "I told you to keep your hands off her."

"Nothing improper happened," said René. "She couldn't sleep. The pain was keeping her awake – "

"Oh? And does molesting her ease it?"

René rolled his eyes, looking irritated. "I didn't do anything to her," he said, his voice firm. "I held her hand until she fell asleep, that's all."

"That isn't what it looked like."

"Ask Theresa! Go ahead!" As if on cue, the rear door of the hearse creaked open. Theresa was struggling to climb down, gripping the doorframe so hard her knuckles went white. Giovanni went to her, putting his arms around her, helping her. She winced, balancing on one foot, trying not to put any weight on her bad leg.

"Theresa, you shouldn't – "

"He didn't hurt me," she said. Her voice was thin and angry. "I couldn't sleep, and I didn't want to wake you. René sat up with me. He held my hand. He didn't do anything to me." She glared at him, suddenly struggling to wrench herself out of his arms. She wobbled, crying out as her bad leg scraped against the side of the hearse. "He didn't do anything!"

"I'm sorry." Giovanni had to force himself to look at René. He hated to admit to failure; it made him look weak and stupid. But still, Theresa was telling the truth. If René had molested her, she would not have tried to protect him. He helped her back into the hearse in silence, closing the door. He and René re-hitched the mule.

"Why don't you trust me?"

"I've already apologized."

"And I don't care." René looked at him, taking the reins and urging the mule forward. The mule moved slowly and steadily. "I would never do anything like that to Theresa," he continued, "haven't I proved it to you?"

Giovanni sighed, squirming. He found himself wishing that he was in the back of the hearse with Theresa; he wanted to be anywhere but here with René. He wished he'd never left Lyon, that he'd never taken Theresa with him. "You're a soldier."

"I love my country."

"I've seen the way soldiers treat my people."

"I'm not like that."

René's stubborn anger was only making the whole thing more difficult. "My aunt and uncle – Theresa's parents – raised me after mine died," he said. He hated dredging up the past, and he had no desire to share the dark secrets of it with René. René was staring at him, silently commanding him to continue. "There's a place in Paris called the Court of Miracles. It used to be a place for Gypsies."

René nodded. "I've been there. The Gypsies still live there."

"No, it used to be a secret. No one knew about it. But there was a judge, and he…he _wanted_ this one Gypsy woman. She didn't want him, she didn't love him. He found the Court of Miracles, and he arrested everyone, and he brought the woman into a room. He told her she had to marry him, and she refused. So…so he had his soldiers bring in this girl…and he told them they could rape her if they wanted to…and they started to. But the woman, she begged them to stop, and the only way they would was if she married the judge. So she did."

René was silent for a long time. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"The girl the soldiers brought in was my aunt, Theresa's mother." Giovanni could feel his own anger rising, and he glared at René. René was staring at him, stunned. "She was thirteen, and that judge told four soldiers that they could do whatever they wanted to her. They held her arms still and ripped her clothes and laughed at her while she screamed. And the only thing that saved her was another woman sacrificing herself."

"I – I had no idea – I'd never, ever – "

"My uncle found those men and killed them," said Giovanni. "And if you ever do anything to Theresa, I'll kill you myself."

"I like Theresa," said René, "I like her, and I respect her. I would never, ever hurt her." He shook his head, suddenly looking angry. "Men like that are monsters. They deserve to die. I…I haven't always treated Gypsies with proper respect, but I'd never do what those men wanted to."

"All right," said Giovanni. The look of disgust and anger in René's eyes was enough to convince him. If his true intent had been to molest Theresa, he wouldn't have reacted so to the story; he'd have rolled his eyes and called it a lie, or worse, he would've blamed Cassandra. "Listen, Theresa doesn't know about this."

"Of course."

"All right."

The sun had succeeded in rising and was shining down on the road. It was slowly growing familiar, and Giovanni knew that they'd be in Lyon by nightfall if nothing happened to slow them down. He found himself thinking of Katarina, aching for her. He'd missed her so very much. He'd missed his children, his babies. He longed for them, longed to hold them in his arms. He would finally meet the twins, Marc and Louisa; he couldn't wait to hold them, to take in the sweet, clean smell that all babies had. He imagined entering his house, imagined Katarina springing into his arms, kissing his face. He would hold her and kiss her, then he would turn to Dante and Musetta. He would hold them and kiss them, and never ever let them go.


	27. Still 1505, Part XXII

**STILL 1505…**

The day passed slowly, but the mule plodded forward obediently, and they reached Lyon just as the sun was setting. René looked over at Giovanni. He was staring out at the Gypsy camp. He turned to René. "Wait here," he said. "I'll come back with my uncle."

Giovanni climbed down from the hearse, and René watched as he approached one of the Gypsy caravans. René glanced back at the hearse. Theresa was probably wondering why they'd stopped, and she was probably lonely too. He and Giovanni had spent the entire day driving the hearse, sitting side by side in an uncomfortable silence. René climbed down from the hearse, leaving the mule where it was. He went to the back and opened the door.

Theresa was asleep, but she woke upon hearing the door open. She looked up at him, squinting, her dark eyes searching for Giovanni. René reached for her, taking her hands. "We've reached Lyon," he said, gently pulling her down. She leaned on him, groaning when she tried putting weight on her bad leg. "Giovanni went to get your father."

He guided her, helping her limp alongside the hearse. He could see Giovanni returning. He was being followed by a tall, thin man. He heard Theresa gasp in delight and surprise, and Giovanni and the man began to run towards them.

"Theresa!" the man reached for her, and René helped ease her into his arms. "Oh God, Theresa, what's happened?"

The man had not really acknowledged him, and though René was somewhat offended, he didn't want to intrude upon this private moment. He turned and went back to the hearse, busying himself with unhitching the mule. He wondered what he would do with the hearse now. He certainly had no intention to return it to Paris. He'd be executed the minute he set foot in Paris, and he had no desire to leave Theresa just yet. He loved her, and she loved him, and he wanted to stay in Lyon with her. He glanced back at Theresa and her father. He had lifted her and was carrying her now, cradling her in his arms like a baby. He and Giovanni were bringing her back to the caravan, leaving René alone in the growing darkness.

~xXx~

"It was the one thing I asked of you! The one thing!"

"Clopin, please."

He knew in his heart that he should not be angry with Giovanni, that none of this was his fault. Still, Giovanni had sworn to protect Theresa, and she'd very nearly been killed. There was a strong chance she'd walk with a limp for the rest of her life. Clopin wished he hadn't let her go at all. He wished he'd never let her out of his sight.

"I'm sorry," said Giovanni. "I'm truly sorry."

"It isn't your fault," said Cassandra. Clopin could hear the crossness in her voice, though, and knew that it was directed at him. He couldn't blame Giovanni for what had happened. Cassandra was examining the wound in Theresa's shoulder, holding the candle up and squinting at it. "Where's the boy who stitched this?"

"Oh." Giovanni glanced back at the door, as if expecting the boy to magically appear. "That was René. I…I left him back by the…hearse…"

"Can you go fetch him? I'd like to thank him."

"Yes, Aunt Cassandra." Giovanni left quickly, his head down.

"Clopin, you have no right to be angry at him," said Cassandra, turning to him. "He tried his best to protect her."

"It's my fault," said Theresa. She looked at him, her dark eyes filling with tears. "I…I disobeyed you…"

Cassandra was stroking her hair, making shushing sounds. "No, Theresa, you didn't do anything to warrant this – "

"I danced," said Theresa, blurting it out. Tears had begun to spill from her eyes, and she wiped them away with her fingers. "Giovanni and I needed money to pay for the inn, and I danced."

"Oh God…"

"Clopin, don't."

"It was the one thing I asked you not to do, Theresa."

"Clopin." Cassandra was glaring at him. She was winding a thin strip of fabric around the wound in Theresa's shoulder even though it wasn't bleeding. Clopin wanted to scream, to strike someone or something. He wanted to find Jean-Claude Frollo and rip him limb from limb. He had done this to Theresa, but there was still that nagging thought in the back of Clopin's mind, that perhaps this wouldn't have happened if Theresa had listened to him.

The door opened behind him, but when he turned, Giovanni was alone. "He's gone, Uncle," said Giovanni. "I don't know where he went."

"Go home, Giovanni," said Cassandra. "We'll find him tomorrow."

Giovanni nodded. "Goodnight." He left quickly, probably eager to get home to Katarina and the babies.

Clopin turned back to Theresa. She refused to look at him, her head lowered in shame, and he suddenly began to hate himself. Despite her dancing, she had not provoked this attack, and he would not allow her to think otherwise. He went to her, sitting beside her. "Theresa…"

"I'm sorry," she sobbed, burying her face in her hands. "I'm so sorry – "

"No, Theresa, don't be." He put his arm around her and began to stroke her hair. Behind him, he could hear Cassandra telling Martine and Jacques-Clopin to go to bed. He could hear their confusion, their worry, and knew that he would have to explain things to them in the morning. He was not sure what he would tell them yet, but this didn't matter. Theresa was home. The danger had passed, and her wounds would heal in time. "This was not your fault," he said, "you did nothing wrong, Theresa."

"But my dancing – "

"You mustn't think that way," he said. "You didn't want this to happen, did you?" She shook her head. "No, of course not. You're home now, and you're safe. No one will ever hurt you again."

~xXx~

She was more than surprised when Giovanni came through the door. She'd been attempting to put Dante and Musetta to bed, and his homecoming threw everything into chaos, but she didn't care. She watched, wide-eyed, as Dante and Musetta ran to their father. Giovanni scooped them up into his arms, kissing their cheeks and ruffling their hair, and in the next room, the twins began to cry. Normally Katarina would have cursed, but she went to the next room and lifted them, cradling their small warm bodies against her.

Marc and Louisa were six months old and were chubby babies. They were heavy, and she didn't like carrying them both at the same time. She secretly feared that she would drop one or both of them. They had been completely identical at birth, but now that they had begun to grow, their differences stood out. Louisa's hair was curly, falling around her little face in ringlets. Marc's eyes were blue, like Giovanni's, and dimples formed in his cheeks when he smiled.

"And those are the new babies," Dante was saying. Katarina looked over in time to see him and Musetta lead Giovanni into the room. "They're Marc and Louisa."

"Marc came out first," said Musetta. "And Grandmother held him while Louisa came."

Giovanni knelt beside her, staring down at Marc and Louisa. He looked as though he was about to start crying as she handed Marc to him. He took the baby gently, shushing Marc as he began to fuss. "Shh, Marc," he said, "I'm your father. I'm so happy to finally meet you." He kissed Marc's forehead.

She was not sure how long it took for Dante and Musetta to finally get into their beds and fall asleep. She sat on her own bed, watching as Giovanni tucked them in, kissing their cheeks and smiling down at them. He watched them as they drifted into sleep, then he turned and came to her. She had set Marc and Louisa down on the bed, and Giovanni sat down beside them. "I've missed you so much," he said, reaching out and taking her hand. For a brief moment, she was reminded of what it had been like after Dante was born. She remembered feeling Giovanni's arms around her; he'd held her while she'd held their baby.

"I'm so glad you're home," she said, leaning over and kissing him.

He kissed her back. "I shouldn't have left you," he whispered.

It had only been six months. Giovanni was supposed to stay in Paris for an entire year. Why would he return home so soon? Had his grandmother passed away? Had something else happened? "It – it's only been six months…"

"I know." He lifted Louisa into his arms. She snuggled against him, nuzzling closer in search of warmth. "Something happened."

There was something about his tone that she didn't like, and Marc began to fuss. She lifted the baby, rubbing his back until he quieted. Giovanni sighed. "It's a long story," he said, "but it wouldn't be right if I didn't tell it to you now."

~xXx~

He'd stayed in this inn before, months ago when he'd come to Lyon with Jean-Claude. René wondered if he'd stayed in the exact same room. It certainly looked familiar, but he was too tired to think much about it. He lay there in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to come.

He closed his eyes and found himself thinking of the first time he'd seen Theresa. She'd been right here in Lyon, dancing in the street. People had gathered to watch her, throwing coins into the little purple hat by her feet. She had twirled gracefully, the bells on her sash singing. René wondered if she would ever be able to dance again. She'd been unable to put any pressure on her injured leg. He hoped that that would pass with time; the wound was only three days old, after all. It still needed to heal. He wondered if she'd have a scar, and hoped that she wouldn't. She was far too pretty to be marred like that. The thought of her carrying permanent reminders of Jean-Claude's attempt on her life made René angry, and he rolled onto his side, squeezing his pillow, wishing he could squeeze Jean-Claude's throat.

He would go and see Theresa in the morning. He would introduce himself to her parents, and he would tell them what had happened to their daughter. He would not play the dashing hero, would not ask for a reward. He would merely give them the information. He hoped, though, that they wouldn't hate him as much as Giovanni seemed to. Perhaps they would be able to see through the fact that he was a soldier. Perhaps they'd see that he did indeed have a heart.

René thought of Theresa now, remembering the way she'd kissed him. He remembered her lips – small and warm – pressed against his. He remembered the way her touch has suddenly filled him with happiness. It had been like being reborn. He wondered if every kiss from Theresa would fill him with such ecstasy. He loved her. He loved her more than anything, and he opened his eyes, staring into the darkened bedroom. He would marry her. Her parents would see that he was a good man, that he loved and wanted to care for Theresa. He could surely afford any bride price they asked. Gypsies demanded money in exchange for their daughters, didn't they? He thought he'd heard that somewhere. At any rate, he was certain he could afford it.

He let his eyes drift closed, thinking about Theresa, imagining her lips pressed against his.

~xXx~

The relief that had come with the Gypsy witch's death had spread from him to Cosette. She was calmer now, more relaxed and less melancholy; she'd regained her appetite. She lay there beneath him now, shuddering with pleasure, gripping his hips pushing him into her. Jean-Claude kissed her neck, relishing the way she moaned his name. He loved her so much. Cosette was his everything.

"I love you," he whispered, "I love you so much."

"Jean-Claude…oh, I love you…"

He climaxed, and they lay there, panting and looking at each other. He brushed her auburn curls out of her face, savoring the softness of her hair. He rolled off of her and put his arms around her. She nestled closer to him, resting her head against his chest. She looked up at him, her eyes full of love. He kissed her forehead. "I will always love you," he said.

"And I you."

He held her, watching as she slowly fell asleep. She looked like an angel when she slept, her pale face framed by her curls. He closed his eyes. The Gypsy witch's death had done so much good. René's treachery was, of course, a horrible thing. Still, he had fled Paris and would never return, and this made Jean-Claude happy. René would live whatever life he wanted to, and when he died, he'd go straight to Hell for attempting to help the Gypsy witch. He would burn alongside her, screaming in endless agony, and he deserved to. René's punishment would not come right away, but it would come. Jean-Claude did not have to waste time thinking about him, not while he was here with Cosette.


	28. Still 1505, Part XXIII

STILL 1505…

"Mama?"

Cassandra looked up from the pot that she was stirring. Jacques-Clopin was standing a few paces away from her. There was a tall man standing behind him, though she didn't notice him right away. Jacques-Clopin had been sitting with Theresa while Cassandra and Martine cooked; he was only supposed to come and get her if something was wrong. He was eerily calm, though, not in a panic. This alarmed her, and she stepped away from the pot, handing the wooden spoon to Martine.

"What's the matter?"

Jacques-Clopin turned and pointed to the man behind him. "He says he wants to meet you," he said. "He says he's friends with Theresa."

The man was tall and muscular; he had the body of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors. He had the stiff, rigid posture of a soldier. Hadn't Giovanni said that a soldier had sewed Theresa's wounds shut? Could this be the man? He had light brown hair and blue eyes, and he nodded respectfully to her. "Hello," he said, "my name is René Thénardier. I…well, I'm a friend of Theresa's…"

René's nervousness put her at ease, though she couldn't say why. She glanced over at Jacques-Clopin. "Go back to your sister," she said, watching as he turned and left obediently. "My name is Cassandra Trouillefou. I'm Theresa's mother."

"Ah, of course. I helped Theresa escape from the cathedral."

"Giovanni mentioned you," she said, and René nodded. "You were able to remove the arrows from her and sew the wounds shut."

"I used to be a soldier in the king's army," said René. "I know a few things about medicine, I suppose."

"Thank you, René, for saving my daughter's life. If there's anything I can do – "

He was shaking his head. "No," he said, cutting her off. "Please, I don't need any sort of reward."

She glanced back over at Martine. Martine was looking at René, her eyes wide and curious. The stew was practically done, and Clopin would be home soon. He would want to meet René, to shake his hand. "Stay for dinner," she said. There was enough stew, and they could always stretch it with water.

"Oh, I couldn't – "

"Please." She could tell that he was hungry. His blue eyes darted to the stewpot, his nostrils undoubtedly taking the smell it gave off.

"Thank you," he said.

~xXx~

The stew was watery, but Clopin barely noticed. He was more focused on the pale young man sitting beside him. The man – René, his name was René Thénardier – had been the one who'd saved Theresa's life. Clopin, while grateful, was not sure whether or not he actually liked him. He moved stiffly, like a soldier, and he kept glancing over at Theresa as he talked. Clopin did not like the way Theresa was looking at him. She looked at him with a deep and ardent affection in her eyes; she was young and naïve and clearly infatuated with the man who'd saved her life.

René had to see the way Theresa looked at him. He would undoubtedly take advantage of it. He would woo her, tell her he loved her, and he would leave her after she'd given herself to him. Clopin had seen it happen to other women he'd known; he'd seen the bastard children they'd been left with and the way that their former lovers had denied even knowing them.

Theresa did not deserve that fate. Whatever René's intentions, Theresa was vulnerable, and Clopin would not let him take advantage of that. He would thank René for everything he'd done, for the selfless act that had saved Theresa's life, but he would not let him near her. René was a soldier. Soldiers were cruel; they loved pain and bloodshed. They took what they wanted, and they did so quickly and ruthlessly.

René smiled at Theresa, looked at her with something resembling tenderness in his eyes, and it made Clopin angry. He would not let this man touch his daughter, would not let him anywhere near her.

~xXx~

The week passed slowly. René supposed that the hearse he'd borrowed back in Paris (with no intent to return) was bringing him some good luck. Several of the townspeople had seen him with it and he'd practically been hired as a gravedigger on the spot. He hated the job, though only because of its morbid nature; he was used to physical labor, was used to being outside. He was not used to being around the dead, however, and he quickly grew to hate it. Still, the job was paying him, and he could afford to rent a cheap room in Lyon. He visited Theresa as often as he could, which was not nearly often enough for his liking.

Her father, Clopin, did not like him. René could see it in the way Clopin looked at him, his dark eyes scrutinizing him. He was hurt by this, and he felt bitter about it. Like Giovanni, Clopin refused to believe that his intentions were pure and that he genuinely loved Theresa. Oh, he hadn't confessed this love to anyone but Theresa; he wasn't stupid. Clopin seemed just as protective of Theresa as Giovanni, if not more so. Telling him that he loved Theresa would be like signing his own death warrant.

René approached Theresa, watching her now. She smiled at him and walked towards him, moving slowly. She was using a crutch for support, not putting her full weight down on her bad leg. "Hello, René."

"Hello. How have you been feeling?"

Theresa groaned, gritting her teeth. "It still hurts," she said, "but it's getting better." She glared down at the crutch. "I just can't wait for the day when I don't need to use this stupid thing."

"It'll be soon, I'm sure. The wound hasn't been bothering you, has it?"

She shook her head. "It was itching a little," she said, "but I put some herbs on it and it felt better." She smiled at him, and he found himself wanting to kiss her again. It would be improper, though; there were people about, most of them watching him and Theresa, as if they expected him to molest her then and there. He had saved Theresa's life, yet her friends and family were still distrusting of him. It truly wasn't fair. "How have you been?" she asked.

"Well, I don't really like my job," he said.

"Why don't you join the guards?"

René shrugged. He'd contemplated it, had thought about it. Patrolling the streets of Lyon would be easy, and the job would certainly pay more than digging graves. He did not want to don a soldier's uniform again, though. He did not want Theresa's parents to see him as a heartless soldier, nor did he want to surround himself with people who would undoubtedly remind him of Jean-Claude. Looking back on his experience with the Parisian guards, René now realized that Jean-Claude's obsessive hatred of Gypsies had tainted everyone around him. He was ashamed to admit that he had once thought Gypsies were nothing but lying thieves and harlots. He supposed that he had Theresa to thank for whatever transformation had occurred inside of his mind.

"No," he said. "I don't want to be a soldier again."

Theresa looked at him, shifting on her crutch. "Why not?"

"Well, I have a heart…"

She laughed, the smile spreading across her face. "You do, René. You do."

~xXx~

A week had gone by and René Thénardier was still in Lyon. He'd been banished from Paris, he couldn't return there and expect to live very long, but there was no reason for him to remain in Lyon. No reason except, perhaps, Theresa. Clopin had seen René hanging around, talking to his daughter while she tried to recuperate. Theresa was impatient; her wounds wouldn't heal fast enough. She spent most of her time outside, hobbling back and forth on crutches. More often than not, Clopin would return home to find René standing there, watching Theresa as she paced, talking to her.

Theresa would laugh and smile, and René always kept a respectful distance. He'd never touched her; but then again, he wasn't stupid. There were people about, most of them Gypsies who would be more than willing to protect Theresa. Katarina had begun sitting outside with her children, keeping an eye on them and René at the same time. Rosalie must have mentioned René's presence to Pierre, because he had begun spending more time around Theresa as well. He would walk with her, helping her with the crutches, fetching water for her when she needed it.

Clopin had known Pierre his entire life, and he liked the boy well enough. He and Giovanni had grown up together, the two of them practically inseparable. Clopin was somewhat surprised that Pierre wasn't married. He was still young, only twenty-three, and Clopin had never really seen him around any girls. He was genuinely surprised to find Pierre hanging around Theresa, but his surprise came with relief. Perhaps Pierre's presence would deter René. Perhaps Pierre had feelings for Theresa; perhaps he was there in an attempt to court her. Clopin didn't dislike Pierre, though he certainly would prefer a better man for Theresa. Pierre was, after all, a thief. He'd been caught once and had the scars to prove it, but he was unrepentant about it. He continued to steal as though he had some death wish.

Still, if pairing Theresa with Pierre kept René away from her, then it seemed worth it. If she married Pierre, René would lose interest in her in a heartbeat, and he would leave Lyon immediately.

~xXx~

"Here, let me help you."

Pierre was at her side nearly instantly, and she let him lift the crutch she'd dropped. She took it from him, smiling. "Thank you."

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine." Her bad leg throbbed dully. The pain would only grow worse, would turn into a painful burning sensation, if she kept walking. She glanced over at her caravan. She'd been walking for at least an hour. Perhaps it was time to rest. She turned and made her way back to the caravan. Pierre walked beside her, watching her, ready to help her. It was sweet of him; she did enjoy his company.

She'd hoped to see René. She preferred his company to Pierre's. Pierre looked at her the same way Giovanni did, as though she was still a child. He talked too much, and about things that didn't matter, like the weather or how much he didn't like Marie's new husband. He became downright irritating when René was there with them. He glared at René, made snide comments about his new job as a gravedigger. It seemed as though René did his best to ignore Pierre, but Theresa could see anger building within him, and she often wished that Pierre would stop being so mean.

She reached the caravan and sat down on the steps. Pierre sat down beside her, leaving a gap between them. Out of the corner of her eye, Theresa could see René approaching. Her heart leapt, and for a minute, she couldn't hear what Pierre was saying.

"Hello Theresa, Pierre."

"Hello, René."

Pierre did not reply, but René did not seem to notice. He sat down on the grass, stretching his legs. He pulled an orange from his pack and began peeling it. He handed a slice to her and offered one to Pierre. Pierre shook his head. "No thank you."

René shrugged and ate the slice. "How have you been?"

"I'm all right," said Theresa. The throbbing sensation in her leg had died down somewhat. Another few minutes of rest and the pain would melt away completely. "How are you?"

"I really can't complain, though I'd like to," said René.

"I'm sure the dead would listen to you," said Pierre, his voice bitter.

"Pierre, stop it."

"At least I wouldn't rob them." René ate another orange slice, staring at Pierre, challenging him.

Pierre glared at René, rubbing the space where the little finger on his left hand used to be. Theresa had no desire to sit and listen while they bickered. She suddenly felt tired, and though the dull pain in her leg was beginning to fade, she wanted to lie down. She stood up slowly, gripping her crutches. "It was nice to see you," she said, looking more at René than Pierre, "the both of you, I mean. I – I'm tired, though."

Pierre rose quickly. "Do you need any help?" he asked.

"No." Theresa shook her head. She smiled at them, but found her eyes lingering on René. She wished that she could invite him inside, that he could sit beside her and talk to her. She remembered sitting with him in the back of the hearse as they traveled to Lyon, the way he'd held her hand. She remembered kissing him, and she wanted to do it again more than anything.

She said her goodbyes and went into the caravan. She lay down on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. Her father had painted the caravan's ceiling deep blue and had drawn little silver stars on it. She lay there, staring up at the painted stars and thinking about René, imagining his lips against hers.


	29. Still 1505, Part XXIV

STILL 1505…

She did not fully trust René; he was a soldier, after all, and it was common knowledge that soldiers only wanted one thing from pretty Gypsy girls. She did, however, trust Theresa, and it infuriated her that Clopin wanted Rosalie to examine her. If René – or anyone else – had done anything to hurt her, she would not be silent about it. Theresa was still young, but she wasn't stupid.

Cassandra sat outside of the caravan, waiting for Rosalie to emerge. She supposed that having Theresa examined eased Clopin's mind, then it was the right thing to do. Still, Theresa had insisted that René hadn't hurt her; Clopin's distrust of René seemed to be spreading. It seemed as though he didn't trust Theresa either. Cassandra felt hurt by this.

Her memories of the night she'd been attacked certainly hadn't faded. She could still remember the way everyone had stared at her when she'd been returned to the cells. People had looked at her with pity in their eyes, they had screamed at the guards, demanding to know how they could be so cruel. Her parents had held her afterwards, and her brothers had looked at her, shifting uncomfortably, unable to meet her eye. Her mother had ushered them from the room.

"They didn't rape me, Mama!"

"I just need to be sure, Cassandra, I just need to be sure." Her mother had been crying as she spoke, and Cassandra had laid down and let her examine her. It had been humiliating to know that her own parents didn't believe her.

"She would have told us," she said.

"I just want to be sure," said Clopin. She could see the frustration in his face, and she looked away from him. Not knowing for certain what had happened to Theresa in Paris was eating him alive. Rosalie would examine Theresa, would find that she was still a virgin, and Clopin's anxiety would lessen, if only slightly.

The door of the caravan creaked open, and Rosalie emerged. "Nothing happened," she said. "She's fine."

Clopin let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you," he said, "thank you so much, Rosalie."

As much as she wanted to tell Clopin that she'd been right all along, Cassandra held back. She would not ruin his brief moment of happiness. She glanced over her shoulder at the town of Lyon, frowning as a newer, more disturbing thought entered her mind. René hung around Theresa because she was still a virgin; if he had defiled her, he wouldn't be attempting to woo her. He wouldn't leave Theresa alone, not until she gave herself to him. He would ruin Theresa and break her heart, and he wouldn't even care. The thought terrified and angered Cassandra, and she glanced over at Clopin. He reached out and took hold of her hand as though he'd had the exact same thought. There was a certain familiar determination in his eyes; it was a look that Cassandra had seen before Clopin had killed the men who'd attacked her.

~xXx~

Theresa had always been a talkative girl, and Clopin found her sudden fits of silence disturbing. She would stare, her eyes blank, as though she was really somewhere else. Clopin wondered if she was thinking about René. He had seen René more and more. He knew that he wasn't seeking him out, that he wasn't searching for him. Lately, René seemed to be everywhere. He could always be found in the churchyard; when he wasn't burying the dead, he was maintaining their graves, clearing weeds away from the headstones. He hung around the caravan, chatting with Theresa despite Pierre's increasingly hostile presence.

Clopin had heard Pierre and René argue; Pierre was always the one to start the arguments, making rude comments about René's line of work. René didn't seem particularly threatened by Pierre. After all, Pierre was shorter than René, and René had been a soldier. He'd had combat experience. He knew how to fight, and he'd probably fight dirty if given the chance.

"I don't want him near her," Cassandra had said. "I've told Theresa to act responsible, to send him away, but she won't listen." This only made Clopin angrier.

"Theresa," he said, "I don't want René hanging around here anymore."

Theresa tilted her head to the side. She looked hurt and puzzled. "Why?"

"Don't you find it strange that he spends so much time with you?"

She shook her head. "We're friends."

"Yes, but he's a soldier – "

"Not anymore, Papa, you know that!"

"He's a soldier, and you're a Gypsy," said Clopin, trying not to shout at her. "You…you're still young, and you don't know how cruel some men can be."

"René isn't like that."

Clopin rubbed his forehead. He thought of Cassandra and Rosalie, how they'd suffered at the hands of soldiers, men like René. "I don't want you to get hurt." Theresa did not reply. "There are some men who see a pretty girl like you and only want one thing – "

"Papa, René isn't – "

"I am not going to let him hurt you." He was aware that he was raising his voice. Theresa's interruptions were irritating him, he had to silence her to make his point. "I've seen enough men like him to know what he really wants from you, and I will not let him take it. I don't want you to see him anymore, and that is final."

Theresa stared at him, her dark eyes full of pain. She nodded, biting her lower lip, forcing back tears. Clopin touched her shoulder, and he felt her stiffen. She looked down at her hands. "The next time he comes around, you tell him to leave," said Clopin. "And if he doesn't leave, you call for help." Theresa nodded again, but she would not look at him.

~xXx~

As much as she wanted to see René, as much as she wanted to talk to him, she found herself pointing to the road with her crutch and telling him to leave. The hurt, wounded look in his eyes pained her. It was like driving a knife through her heart.

"You need to leave," she said, "my father doesn't want you around here anymore."

"I don't understand."

Theresa glanced around. Pierre was approaching, carrying gardening tools slung over his shoulder. What if her father had asked Pierre to make sure that she didn't disobey him? What if he'd asked Pierre to make sure that René stayed away from her? How far would Pierre go? For a brief instant, Theresa could see the scythe Pierre was carrying swing through the air, could see it sink into René's throat, and the thought made her shudder. "You – you can't stay around here," she said. "Please leave."

René must have seen her looking at Pierre, because he turned. He stared at Pierre, glaring defiantly at him, standing up straight and refusing to back down. He'd never show fear or admit defeat, he'd never leave. What if Pierre did kill him? The thought of René dying, the thought of never seeing him again and being responsible for his death, sickened her. "René please – "

"I love you, Theresa," said René, turning back to her.

"I love you," she said, "but you need to leave. Please. If you do love me, then leave."

René turned again, this time looking over at the caravan. There was a look of stark determination in his eyes, and it made Theresa uneasy, almost frightened. "Is your father home?" he asked.

"I think so."

René nodded. "All right." He left her, walking confidently up to the caravan. Theresa watched as he knocked on the door, unaware that she was holding her breath. Her father answered it, and René said something that she could not hear. Her father looked at him warily, but he stepped aside and let René into the caravan.

~xXx~

"What is it you wanted to talk about?"

René did not like the way Clopin was looking at him, but he held his head high. It felt as though Clopin was trying to dissect him with his eyes, as if he was trying to see directly into his mind. René had nothing to hide. He loved Theresa, and if Clopin could truly read his mind, then he'd see that.

"I want to marry Theresa."

"What?" Clopin stared at him, and René suddenly felt his confidence begin to slip.

"I love her," he said. "I want to marry her. I – I'd gladly pay whatever bride price you ask – "

"Do you think I will sell her to you?" demanded Clopin, "do you think she's an object you can buy?"

"No! No, I had just heard that it's a Gypsy custom to pay a bride price – "

"I want you to stay away from my daughter."

"But, sir – " he had never referred to a Gypsy as 'sir' before, and it felt funny. Gypsies were lower class; René had been taught that they were liars and criminals who simply didn't deserve respect or dignity. Still, winning Theresa's hand in marriage could not be done if he treated her father poorly. He loved Theresa with all his heart; he could probably grow to love her family, too.

"I know what men like you want," said Clopin, glaring darkly at him. "Men like you see Gypsy girls and only want one thing from them. You think Gypsy girls are harlots, you think they've been with so many men already, what's one more?"

"No, no, it isn't like that – "

"Really? Then tell me how it is. Will you marry Theresa and take her home to your parents? Will you introduce her to your fellow soldiers as your wife?"

"I…" he had not thought about his mother. She knew about his exile from Paris. He'd left her a letter, plus Jean-Claude had probably stopped by and told her everything, that he had betrayed the city by trying to help Theresa. His mother had not made any attempts to contact him; he was probably dead in her eyes. Besides, she would not see Theresa for the kind, beautiful girl that she was. She would see her dark skin and call her a thief and a witch.

"No, you won't," said Clopin, as though reading his mind. "You won't even stay with her! You'll leave her the moment you've gotten what you want! Everyone knows that Gypsy marriages don't really count in the eyes of God." Clopin drew the knife in his belt now. It was long and sharp, and René reached for his own knife on instinct. "I've killed men bigger and stronger than you, boy. If I ever see you again, I will personally make sure that no one finds your bones."

"Sir, if you'll just give me a chance – "

"Get out of my home."

"Let me prove to you that I love her!"

"I said, get out!"

The harshness was not just in Clopin's voice; it was in his eyes as well. René was suddenly afraid to turn away from him. He could see Clopin plunging his knife into his vulnerable back, could see him twisting it painfully. He backed away from Clopin, reaching out behind him and grabbing for the doorknob. He felt stupid for being so afraid. Clopin undoubtedly saw his fear and enjoyed it. Still, there was nothing René could do. He left the caravan. He knew that Theresa was watching him, he could feel her eyes on him, but he couldn't bring himself to look at her.

Tears were beginning to sting at his eyes, and looking at Theresa would only cause them to cascade down his face. He couldn't handle any more shame or humiliation. René turned and began walking back into the city of Lyon, his head lowered against the cold night air. In the distance, he heard Clopin calling to Theresa, and knew that she was hobbling over to him.

René's body felt numb as he entered his room, but there was a sharp, twinge in his chest. Was it possible for a heart to break? Was his heart breaking right now? He sat down on his bed, and let the tears fall from his eyes, grateful for the darkness. He pressed the pillow to his face, sobbing into it.


	30. Still 1505, Part XXV

STILL 1505…

He had seen the fear in René's eyes, but he knew that René was stubborn. So long as Theresa remained here, so long as she was unmarried, he would be back. Theresa was standing there, staring after René, watching him leave with pain and confusion in her eyes. She was young, she was naïve; he had saved her life, and she loved him, or at least she thought that she did. She was too blinded by her own emotions to see that there was a difference between love and lust, and that René clearly felt the latter for her.

Clopin watched as Theresa hobbled over to him. She'd been using the crutches less and less, though she still favored the wounded leg. Pierre was at her side, walking beside her, ready to help her. There was something genuinely tender in the way he looked at her, as if he cared about her. He certainly cared more than René ever could or would.

"What's happened?" asked Theresa. She was still staring down the road, staring at the place where René had once stood.

"Go inside," he said, moving to let her in. She stared at him, silently questioning him as she obediently climbed the steps and entered the caravan. He closed the door behind her and turned to Pierre, noticing for the first time the gardening tools he was carrying. "Have you found steady work?"

Pierre nodded. "There's a farmer who lets me work for him," he said, "he only pays me half of what he pays the others…" Pierre glanced down at his hand, at the place where his little finger used to be. "But it's better than nothing."

"Hm. Is your mother home?"

Pierre nodded again, using the scythe to point to Heracles's caravan. "She should be with Heracles."

Clopin could see smoke rising from behind the caravan. Rosalie was probably back there cooking. "Come on," he said, "I need to talk to the both of you."

~xXx~

She did find it strange that Pierre wasn't married. She had tried bringing up the subject, but she could tell that it made him uncomfortable. He was vague, saying that he hadn't met the right girl, saying that he wasn't ready. Pierre was twenty-three; Rosalie had been married and pregnant when she was his age. True, it was different if a woman never married. It implied that something was wrong with her, that she was barren. If a man never married, it implied that he just didn't care. She hated to think that her only son would be so apathetic.

Clopin's idea to pair Pierre with Theresa seemed strange and careless; Clopin was usually so meticulous. He thought everything through with perfect precision. He clearly hadn't thought about this union very much. Pierre was a full six years older than Theresa (though the age gap didn't seem terribly important; after all, Clopin and Cassandra had ten years between them). Pierre and Theresa didn't even really know each other; Pierre had begun spending time with her to help her recuperate. He'd said that Giovanni had asked him to help keep René away from Theresa.

Rosalie glanced over at her son now. Pierre was sitting on a stool, staring down at his hands. She couldn't see his eyes, couldn't tell what he was thinking; but he played with his hands when he was nervous. When he was nervous, he focused on the place where his little finger used to be, running his remaining fingers over it as though it would grow back if he did so.

"Pierre," said Rosalie, "would you want to marry Theresa?"

Pierre looked up. "I do care for her," he said quickly. "If marrying her will keep that soldier away from her – "

"Do you love her?"

Pierre nodded. "I suppose so."

"Well, that settles it," said Clopin.

Rosalie watched Pierre. He'd spoken with sincerity and honesty, but he'd been playing with his hands the entire time. He seemed so nervous, as if he had something to hide. She did not like the idea of an arranged marriage. She'd met women who'd been married off to men they didn't love, but she'd also met couples who had benefited from the arrangement. Her own experience had not been a good one, and she had to force herself not to think about it. It had happened long ago, and she'd managed to escape it. It was in the past, it was something that no one knew about, and she would keep it that way.

"I just want them to be happy," she said, thinking of Marie and Dmitri. Though their marriage had been rushed, Marie was happier than she'd ever been. Perhaps her pregnancy had been a sign that she belonged with Dmitri.

"Don't worry," said Pierre. He rose now, picking up his scythe, slinging it over his shoulder. He smiled at her, but it looked forced. "Besides, you're always nagging me to get married."

Rosalie had to bite her lip to keep from saying what was in her heart. She did not want to offend Clopin; he was one of her best friends. However, she wanted Pierre to marry because he was in love, not because Clopin was asking a favor of him. Marry her because you love her, she wanted to say, marry her because she makes you happy. Theresa was a wonderful girl, but if Pierre didn't love her – and if she didn't love him – they would be miserable together.

Pierre was old enough to make his own decisions, though, and if he wanted to marry, she couldn't stop him. All she could do was pray that he was making a good decision.

~xXx~

"I don't love Pierre."

"Love is like a plant," said Cassandra, shifting the pins in her mouth. "It grows." She was not quite sure how she felt about Theresa marrying Pierre, and adjusting the wedding dress took her mind off of it, if only for a few moments. It was the dress that Cassandra had worn, and holding the fabric in her hands as she pinned it reminded her of her own wedding. She remembered the way Clopin had held her hands, remembered the way his hands had shook when he'd lifted the veil from her face.

Theresa sighed. "But what if it doesn't?"

"It will, Theresa." Cassandra now desperately hoped that this was true. Pierre was a good man, he would treat Theresa with love and respect. He'd care for her and provide for her, he'd strive to make her happy. Theresa would undoubtedly see this, and her own affection for Pierre would grow. Cassandra wondered if she could persuade Clopin to push the wedding back, if only to give Theresa more time. He was adamant about it happening as quickly as possible, though. Arguing with him about it would be futile.

"Mama, what did René say to Papa last night?"

"I don't know." She hated lying. Lying to her own daughter made her feel cheap. She would not, however, tell Theresa about René's visit. If Theresa knew that René had been asking to marry her, she'd demand to know why she wasn't told. She'd refuse Pierre, she'd run away with René, and he would only hurt her. If she ran off with him, she'd probably return pregnant, ashamed, and heartbroken. If hiding the truth from her prevented this from happening, then Cassandra would continue to do it until the day she died.

"René said he loved me," said Theresa. She did not look at Cassandra, but stared straight ahead into the cracked mirror. "I love him back."

"Theresa, don't talk like that."

"Mama, if he wanted to marry me – "

"He doesn't," said Cassandra sharply. It pained her to see how naïve Theresa was. She and Clopin had done their best, had taught her that men could be just as dangerous as they were kind. "He's a soldier. He only wants one thing – "

"Well, what if Pierre only wants one thing?"

"Has he tried to take it from you?"

"No, but neither has René."

"Perhaps not by force," said Cassandra. "But Giovanni told me what happened in the hearse." Theresa swallowed, but did not respond. "He says that René held your hand and that he called you pretty. It sounds to me like he was trying to seduce you."

Several minutes ticked by before Theresa responded. "I think that he loves me."

"And I know that Pierre loves you." Cassandra rose now, removing the remaining pins from her mouth. She slid them into the hem of her skirt for safekeeping. Theresa's eyes were full of that sad, defeated look that came with losing an argument. Cassandra hugged her, stroking her hair. Theresa moved her arms slowly, almost reluctantly, to hug her back. "I love you, Theresa. I only want what's best for you."

She felt Theresa nod. "Yes, Mama."

~xXx~

He wanted to return right away, to plead with Clopin, to prove to him that he loved Theresa, but his job managed to prevent him from doing so. When he finally did return to the Gypsy camp, days had passed. The sun was setting, and René marched forward, barely noticing the large crowd that had gathered in a nearby field.

Clopin's caravan was dark and completely deserted. All of the caravans and shacks were empty; everyone had gathered in the field around a large bonfire. René watched, squinting, struggling to pick out individual forms amid the crowd. There was a rustling sound, and he turned towards it. A man was emerging from a shack with a bottle of wine. The man was roughly his own age, and was missing two fingers from his left hand.

"Excuse me," said René, "I need to find Clopin Trouillefou."

The man pointed at the bonfire. "He is at party." He spoke with a thick Russian accent. "Come, I take you."

"What – what's the party for?"

"For wedding," said the man, smiling. "Clopin's daughter is married now."

René felt his stomach clench. Theresa had a sister, didn't she? What was her name? Martine, or something like that. Perhaps she'd just gotten married. Perhaps this man wasn't talking about Theresa. "Oh…which one?"

"Theresa," said the man. "She married my brother-in-law, Pierre. Come on, you can come to party too – "

"No. No, I'll come back later. It isn't important."

René turned away from him. The man called after him, but René ignored him. His voice sounded faded and garbled anyway, it was as though René couldn't hear or understand him. He walked along the main road, pausing and looking back at the bonfire. He could see a slim, limping figure, and knew that it was Theresa. She was holding hands with another slightly taller figure. Their faces were shrouded in shadow, but the taller figure – Pierre, it had to be Pierre – leaned over and kissed Theresa. She did not pull away, did not resist him. She kissed him back.

René found himself staring, watching, even though he didn't want to. The pain in his heart was unbelievable; it was far worse than anything he'd ever experienced before. He wanted to rush forward, to pull Theresa away from Pierre. "I thought you loved me," he whispered, watching as Theresa and Pierre were quickly surrounded by the rest of the crowd.

He remembered the way Theresa had kissed him, the way she'd pressed her lips against his as though nothing else mattered. How could she kiss Pierre like that? Had she loved him the entire time? Had she been lying to René? Had she feigned loving him so that he would help her escape? René felt tears prickling at his eyes, and he finally turned away. He began walking back into Lyon, unable to keep the tears back. He didn't care if anyone saw him cry.

"I thought you loved me," he whispered.


	31. Still 1505, Part XXVI

STILL 1505…

The wedding felt blurry, surreal and dreamlike. She stared at her hand, noticing for the first time that Pierre was holding it, and wondered how this had happened. She danced, ignoring the pain that shot through her thigh and shoulder. The wounds from the arrows had not hurt her very much, but the wedding seemed to make the pain come spiraling back. She watched as everyone danced, laughing and smiling, and she found herself forcing back tears.

The dreamlike haze continued even as Pierre led her to what would be her new home. The shack was narrow and sparsely furnished. Theresa saw the bed in the corner, noticing that it was big enough for two people, and the dreamlike feeling suddenly snapped. She stared at the bed, suddenly and painfully aware of how real the wedding had been. She was married now. Pierre was lighting candles, saying something to her, but his voice sounded soft and far-away.

He was her husband now; he would expect her to make love to him. The thought frightened and sickened her. She didn't love him. She didn't want him. Oh, he was nice enough; she certainly liked him. He was Giovanni's best friend, and she'd always seen him as a brother. She was certain he'd be gentle with her. Perhaps she could close her eyes and pretend she was with René instead.

"Theresa?" She forced herself to smile at him as he put his arms around her. She closed her eyes as he leaned in and kissed her. He was soft and gentle, but she wished that he was René. Thinking about René, longing for him, made her heart break, and she began to cry. "What's wrong?"

She shook her head, pulling away from him. He let go of her, allowing her to back away. "I can't," she said, burying her face in her hands.

"You don't have to."

She looked at him. There was a brotherly kindness in his eyes, but it only made her cry harder. She had let him take her; she was his wife, and everyone expected her to. The morning after her wedding, she would sit outside and scrub the bloodstained sheets, proudly showing everyone that she and Pierre had consummated their marriage.

She wiped her eyes. "No," she said, "I have to." She began to remove her wedding dress, folding it carefully and placing it on a chair. Pierre looked at her, then turned and stepped wordlessly towards the bed.

He pulled the blanket back, revealing the crisp white sheet beneath it. Theresa took a deep breath and approached him. She would lie there with him and hold back her tears. Perhaps someday she would forget about René and grow to love Pierre. Pierre was good and kind, after all, he would treat her well. Pierre stood staring at the sheet; he had not moved aside and was blocking her path. He looked at her now, pulling the knife from his belt. Theresa balked, staring at him in shock as he ran the blade over his palm, letting the blood spill down onto the sheet.

"What – what are you doing?" she asked.

"I promised your father that I would love and honor you," said Pierre, looking at her. He shook his hand, causing more blood to rain down on the sheet. It looked grotesque in the candlelight. "I'm not going to dishonor you by forcing you." He took the sheet with his good hand now, tearing away a thin strip of fabric. He wound it around his hand, pulling the bandage tight. "Give yourself to me when you're ready, not before."

She sat down on the edge of the bed, still staring at the blood. Pierre sat down beside her. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you so much, Pierre."

~xXx~

His head was pounding and the world seemed to be spinning. He did not remember exactly what had happened after he'd seen Theresa and Pierre. The foul taste in his mouth and the throbbing in his head told him that it had involved drinking, and seeing himself in the mirror seemed to confirm this. There were dark circles beneath his eyes; his eyes were red-rimmed, bloodshot. René washed his face and shaved, hoping that this would improve his appearance. He was slightly dismayed to find that now he looked like a clean-shaven drunk.

The mere thought of food sickened him, and he left his room without eating anything. The sun seemed too bright and too warm, the day seemed too beautiful. How could the sun be shining on a day like this? How could the weather be so beautiful when René felt so miserable? He headed towards the stable and fetched the mule. It looked at him; it seemed to know how upset he was, it seemed to sympathize.

"I really thought she loved me," he said, stroking its nose.

"Excuse me, are you René Thénardier?"

He had not recognized the voice, and he glanced back over his shoulder. The man had to be in his fifties, and he was missing a leg. He shuffled forward, leaning on a crutch, and René found himself thinking of Theresa and her crutches. "Listen, if someone's died, just give me the address," said René, "I'll come by with the hearse once I've hitched the mule."

"This isn't about that."

"If you don't have a coffin, just wrap the body in a blanket – "

"There is no body. No one has died."

"Then what do you want?"

"I want to ask you a few questions."

"About what?"

"Theresa Trouillefou." The man did not look like a Gypsy. He had fair skin and blonde hair. René watched him warily as he harnessed the mule and began to lead it to the hearse. He did not want to think about Theresa, let alone talk about her. "You used to be a soldier?"

"Yes," said René. He glared at the man now. "I'm also a rapist. It's required when you join the army."

"I didn't know the army had changed that much," said the man. "But then, I quit nearly twenty years ago."

"You used to be a soldier?"

"I was Captain of the Parisian Guard."

René turned away from the mule, staring at the man. He was certain that he'd never seen him before. Though he only had one leg, he did carry himself rigidly, like someone who'd been through the strict, rigorous army training that emphasized posture above all else. "Who are you?"

"My name is Phoebus de Châteaupers. Theresa's father, Clopin, is a friend of my wife's."

"Well, what was it you wanted to ask me?"

"Someone saw you last night near the bonfire," said Phoebus. "You were looking for Clopin. I just wanted to know why."

René shrugged. It was pointless. Theresa had already married someone else. Trying to appeal to Clopin would be futile. He'd won, hadn't he? He'd succeeded in pushing René and Theresa apart. "It doesn't matter anymore."

"But it was about Theresa."

The pounding had returned to his head. René rubbed his forehead, wishing he could just go back to bed and forget everything that had happened. The mule was staring at him, waiting for him to finish hitching it up to the hearse. Phoebus was staring at him, waiting for him to answer his question. Soldiers – both former and current – were determined, and they knew how to make people talk. Phoebus would not leave until he answered his question. "I love Theresa," said René finally. "I love her and I wanted to marry her."

"Even though she's a Gypsy?"

"Yes, even though she's a Gypsy. I don't care what she is, I love her." René shook his head. The tears were threatening to come again. He'd spent so much of the previous night crying into a bottle, how could he possibly have any tears left to shed? "It doesn't matter." He spoke more to himself than to Phoebus. "She's married someone else. She doesn't love me."

Phoebus was silent for a long time, and René wished that he would just leave. He wanted to be alone. "Is that why you saved her back in Paris?"

René nodded. "I knew she was innocent," he said. "I knew that she wasn't a witch, but no one would listen to me." He remembered seeing Jean-Claude on the riverbank, the bow and arrow in his hands. He remembered leaping from the rowboat, remembered how cold the water had been, he remembered shouting at Jean-Claude, begging him not to fire. He remembered the arrow poking crudely out of Theresa's back, remembered her screaming. Above all else, he remembered the feeling of rage and desperation that had built up inside of him; he remembered praying for Theresa as he sewed her wounds shut, praying that she'd live. "I saved her because it was the right thing to do," he said, "and because I loved her too much to let her die."

Phoebus was nodding. "I know how it feels to throw everything away because you love someone."

"Did she love you back?"

"Yes."

René finished hitching the mule and began to lead it out of the stable. He did not want to continue talking to Phoebus, did not want to answer his questions. He did not want to think about Theresa or Pierre or anyone else. He wanted to be alone. He wanted another drink. "I need to go," he said. Phoebus hobbled to the side, letting him through. René passed him without looking at him. He could feel Phoebus's eyes on his back, staring at him, and he did his best to ignore his gaze.

~xXx~

He did not know Theresa very well. He had made her crutches and had helped her figure out how to use them. The wound in her leg was healing, and she would not need the crutches forever. She was lucky; the wound had not become infected, and she wouldn't have to lose her leg. She would not be a cripple. She was sitting outside of the little house she now shared with Pierre, bent over a bucket. She was scrubbing something, frowning as she did so. Phoebus approached her now, and she looked up at him.

"Hello," she said, smiling. The smile seemed thin and forced, and she looked nearly as tired as René had.

Seeing René, meeting him, had been interesting and disturbing. The boy was full of bitterness and anger, and Phoebus hoped that he wouldn't be prone to violence. He'd also been half-drunk and had stunk of cheap wine. Alcohol had an interesting effect on people, though; it made them honest. Drunks didn't lie. They told the world exactly how they felt, and they weren't ashamed of their feelings. René did love Theresa. He was heartbroken because she'd married someone else, but seeing her now, seeing the tiredness in her eyes, Phoebus wondered if she actually loved Pierre. He hated to think that Clopin would force Theresa to marry against her will, but he also knew that fathers did desperate things when they thought their daughters were in danger.

"How's the leg?" he asked, sitting down beside her.

"Getting better," she said. "The pain still comes and goes, but it isn't unbearable."

"You weren't using the crutches last night."

Theresa shook her head. "It didn't hurt so much," she said, "I didn't really think I needed them."

Phoebus had noticed her limping, leaning on Pierre for support, but he said nothing. "I know you've already talked about escaping from the cathedral," he said, "but I'd like to know more about it. I used to be a soldier, and I've been in combat. I suppose I'm curious about the boy who removed the arrows."

"Oh." Theresa shrugged. She was fiddling with the contents of the bucket, which Phoebus now saw was a bed sheet. "I don't remember much," she said. "It happened so fast, really."

"Would you tell me what you do remember?"

"I remember the pain," she said, "and Giovanni was holding me. I…I'm sorry. I don't remember much else."

"What about the trip back to Lyon?"

"I was frightened, I remember that…and René held my hand…" She shook her head. "It's just sort of blurry. I'm sorry. I can't remember."

"That's all right," he said, smiling at her, trying to seem reassuring. She would not look at him, instead focusing on the bucket. "You'll remember it in time."

"I'm sure I will."

He watched her for a few more moments, then bid her goodbye and got up. She'd been lying about not remembering. She remembered everything, but her memories – or rather, the emotions that she attached to them – were private. She didn't want anyone to know how she really felt about that night or about René. Phoebus thought of René now, remembered how red and bloodshot his eyes had been. He'd had the eyes of someone who'd spent a great deal of time crying, and men only cried over women they loved.

~xXx~

It comforted him to know that Theresa was married. René would lose interest in her, and Pierre would make her happy some day. Clopin wondered if she was happy now, though, and not knowing made him uneasy. She had seemed nervous and distracted during the wedding itself. Surely all brides were nervous on their wedding nights, but Theresa had not been herself. He had noticed her limping as she danced, as though the wound in her leg was bothering her, but she had refused to sit down. She had danced through the pain.

He saw her now, sitting outside of the home she now shared with Pierre. She was bent over a bucket, scrubbing something. It was probably the bloodstained bed sheet. The thought of his daughter being intimate with a man disgusted him, but Clopin reminded himself that she was a woman now, not a girl. He was certain that Cassandra's father had felt the same way; no doubt Phoebus had as well, watching his daughter's belly grow to accommodate the baby within it.

Clopin approached Theresa, sitting down beside her. She looked up at him and smiled, but he could tell that the smile was forced. Her eyes were red-rimmed, as though she'd been crying. She was not a happy bride, and knowing this hurt Clopin.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Nothing," she said. Her voice was thin, as though she would begin to cry at any moment.

Clopin sighed. He knew in his heart that Theresa hadn't wanted to marry Pierre. She had wanted to marry René. She was young and naïve; she couldn't know that he would only break her heart. She didn't realize that marrying Pierre was for the best, that Pierre would care for her, that René never would.

"Theresa," he said, "please tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing," she said, her voice bitter. She refused to look at him and glared down at the bloody sheet instead. She scrubbed at it. "I'd like to be alone."

"All right." Arguing with her, demanding that she tell him what was wrong when he already knew, would only upset her further. She was married to a man she didn't love. Clopin had hoped that she would grow to love Pierre, that she would realize that he was a better man than René. She was in love, though, and too naïve to think clearly. She would continue to stubbornly love René, and this would only bring her more pain. Clopin found himself walking towards the field where Pierre was working.

Pierre was crouching, his back to Clopin. He was struggling with something, cursing under his breath. He turned when he heard Clopin approach, and Clopin saw a rabbit squirming in Pierre's hands. Pierre gripped the rabbit's head, twisting it, and the rabbit's frantic legs stopped kicking. Pierre rose now, shoving the dead rabbit into his knapsack and picking up the scythe that lay on the ground at his feet.

"Hello," he said. He shifted, and Clopin noticed the white bandage wrapped around his hand. It had not been there the night before.

"Hello. Tell me, Pierre, how is Theresa doing?"

Pierre shrugged, looking away. He busied himself with the scythe. "She's all right," he said, "she was sleeping when I left this morning…"

"She didn't make you breakfast?"

"I didn't want to wake her. She was up most of the night – she couldn't sleep, I mean. I just didn't want to trouble her."

"Hm." Clopin watched, aware that Pierre was becoming uncomfortable. He'd had plenty of experience in causing pain and discomfort to others, and could always tell when he was succeeding at it. "What happened to your hand?"

"I cut myself earlier today," said Pierre.

"It doesn't hurt does it? Here, let me see it."

"I'm fine – "

Clopin grabbed his wrist, and Pierre did not pull away. He undid the bandage, peeling it back and examining the wound. The cut was thin, the skin around it red with dry blood. It was beginning to heal. It was a shallow cut, and a clean one too; Clopin found himself thinking of Theresa, scrubbing the sheets from her wedding night. "Pierre, whose blood is on your bed sheets?"

"Theresa's," he said quickly. "She – well, you know she was a virgin, and – "

"Please don't lie to me."

Pierre sighed. "It's my blood," he said.

"My daughter's still a virgin, isn't she?"

Pierre nodded. He would not meet Clopin's eye. Clopin let go of Pierre's wrist, letting him bind the wound again. "She didn't want it," said Pierre finally, "I'd never force her…"

"Do you love her?"

"No." Pierre's honesty was blunt, and it stung Clopin. For a moment he wanted to strike him.

"Why did you marry her?"

"You and my mother asked me to."

"You could have said no."

"I can't be with the one I really love," said Pierre, staring down at his hand, running his fingers over the bandage. "And besides, I wanted to protect Theresa."

Clopin sighed. He could not force Pierre and Theresa to love each other. They would continue to love other people, and this would make their marriage an unhappy one. He couldn't be the one to cause such sorrow. He couldn't inflict it upon his oldest daughter. "Pierre, if you and Theresa never consummated the marriage, then you aren't really married," he said.

~xXx~

"Please, you have to leave! If anyone sees you – "

"I don't care," he said, and he found that he truly didn't. Clopin and Pierre could come at this very moment, and René wouldn't care. In fact, he hoped that they would come. He'd tell them exactly how he felt about Theresa; he'd tell them that he loved her. Theresa turned away from him, reaching into the bucket she'd been bent over. She pulled out a white bed sheet. She'd been scrubbing out a bloodstain.

"I'm married, René," she said, holding up the bed sheet, pointing to the rust-colored smear where her virgin blood had spilled. "Please leave me."

"I love you," he said.

"Please don't say that…"

"Do you love him?" he asked. "Do you love your husband?"

Theresa was shaking, tears streaming down her face. She let the bed sheet fall back into the bucket. "Please don't ask me that, René – "

"Do you love him?" He stepped closer to her, grabbing her arms, pulling her to him. She did not resist him, but looked up at him, her dark eyes wide. She reached up, gripping his shoulders, digging her fingers into him as if afraid to lose him.

"No," she said, "I don't. But he's my husband, and I have to honor him – "

"Come away with me," he said.

"I – I've already been with him," she said, shaking her head.

"I don't care," he said, "I wouldn't care if you'd been with a hundred men. I love you – "

"Then please leave me," she said, "my father will kill you if he catches you!"

"Theresa!"

She gasped, and out of the corner of his eye, René could see Clopin approaching, followed by Pierre. He stepped away from Theresa, turning to face them. Pierre was carrying a scythe, and for a brief instant, René could imagine it swinging through the air, colliding with his neck. He saw himself falling to the ground, saw blood spurting from him. He didn't care if Pierre killed him or not. If he had to die to prove his love for Theresa, he'd do it, and he'd do it gladly.

"I thought I told you to stay away from my daughter," said Clopin.

"Go ahead and kill me," said René.

"No!" Theresa bolted, knocking over the bucket and placing herself between them. "Please, this isn't what it looks like, he – he was leaving – "

Clopin held up his hands. He had not reached for the knife in his belt, and Pierre set down the scythe. "Theresa," he said, "I need to speak with René alone." His tone was a calm one, and it startled René. Just a few days ago, Clopin had shouted at him, had threatened him. Now he spoke with an even calmness that sounded sincere. "Pierre, please take Theresa inside for a bit."

Theresa was shaking her head, sobbing as Pierre put his arm around her and gently led her into the house. René watched them go, hurt that Theresa would follow Pierre even though she didn't love him. They entered the little shack, and René felt somewhat relieved. If Clopin was going to kill him, at least Theresa wouldn't see it. He suddenly wished that he had his sword. He wanted to plunge it through Clopin's throat; he wanted to tear the man who was causing him so much pain limb from limb. He wanted to kill Clopin and Pierre, and run away with Theresa.

"I can't tell if you really love her or if you're just stubborn," said Clopin.

"They go hand in hand," said René. "I love her too much to leave her."

"Even though she's married?" asked Clopin, "even though she's been with him?"

René shook his head. "I'd be lying if I said I was a virgin," he said. "And I don't care if she isn't one either."

Clopin nodded. "I need to talk with my wife," he said finally, "and with Theresa and Pierre, of course. Come back tomorrow."

"All right." René left, glancing back at the little house that Pierre had brought Theresa into. He wished that he could see through its walls. He wished that he could kick the door in, that he could just enter and hold Theresa in his arms. He had to force himself to turn his head, to stop looking at the house. He stared straight ahead, making his way back into Lyon.


	32. Still 1505, Part XXVII

STILL 1505…

"I'm busy right now, Phoebus – "

"This is important," said Phoebus. "It's about Theresa." Clopin had been walking away from him, towards his caravan, and he stopped now. He turned to Phoebus. "I know it's none of my business, but that boy, René, was here last night. He was looking for you."

"Well, he found me – "

"He loves Theresa," said Phoebus. "I talked with him this morning. He really does love her."

Clopin sighed and rubbed his forehead. He suddenly looked tired. "Listen, I know you're trying to help me – "

"Why do you hate him so much?" asked Phoebus. He approached Clopin. "Is it because he's a soldier?" Clopin squirmed uncomfortably, and Phoebus knew he'd struck a nerve. "Do you also hate me?"

"No."

"I used to be a soldier. I threw away what many called a 'promising career' for the woman I loved," continued Phoebus. "I think this boy, René, did the same thing."

Clopin looked flustered. "I was just trying to protect her – "

"From what? Just because a man's a soldier doesn't mean he's a monster, too." Despite Clopin's slumped shoulders, despite his air of utter defeat, Phoebus found himself glaring at him. He felt anger burning within his chest; he knew that there were soldiers who used their power to mistreat others. He knew that there were men out there who did rape and torture simply because they had a suit of armor and their Captain's permission to protect them. It infuriated him that anyone would sink so low, that a man would do what he wanted and then use his uniform to justify his actions. Phoebus knew that his anger shouldn't be directed at Clopin, that Clopin had experienced humiliation and cruelty at the hands of soldiers. Clopin was being unfair, though. He was judging René solely on his former employment, just as so many had judged Clopin based on the color of his skin. "He saved Theresa's life, for God's sake! If that doesn't prove his love for her, then I don't know what does!"

Clopin sighed. "I've made a mistake," he said. "I remembered what soldiers have done to the people I love, and I don't want it to happen to her. You'd do the same for Katarina – "

"I let Katarina marry a Gypsy," said Phoebus. "Because he loved her, and she loved him back. I know Theresa and Pierre are married now, but – "

Clopin shook his head. "They aren't. The whole thing's a sham." He sighed. "If they both agree, we can declare the whole thing null and void."

"Are you certain Pierre will?"

"Yes. He and Theresa, they didn't…it's his blood on that sheet, not hers."

Phoebus glanced back over his shoulder. Theresa was no longer sitting outside. The bucket was overturned, the damp sheet spilling out onto the mud. He remembered seeing Katarina after her wedding, hanging the newly cleaned sheet to dry. Despite her scrubbing, a faint, rust-colored stain had lingered on the sheet. Phoebus stared at the overturned bucket. He found it strange that Pierre had not taken Theresa on her wedding night. As her husband, it was his right to. Phoebus found it hard to imagine them lying side by side, sharing a chaste, awkward wedding night.

"I need to talk to Cassandra about this," said Clopin, turning and heading towards his caravan. Phoebus watched him go.

~xXx~

"You know, you could always run away with him," said Pierre.

He hadn't spoken in well over an hour, and it startled Theresa. She looked at him. "What?"

"René," he said. "If you truly love him, and he loves you back, you should just run away with him."

"He doesn't want to," she said. "He says he wants a proper wedding – "

"He should know that a Gypsy wedding is anything but proper."

"No, Pierre, I mean, he doesn't want to flee. He wants to have a home. He wants my family to be part of our lives."

"But what if you can't have that?"

Theresa sighed. "Why do you keep asking me?"

Pierre shrugged. "I would help you," he said.

This startled her, but then again, just about everything about Pierre seemed to startle her lately. The way he'd purposely cut his hand on their wedding night, his lack of a reaction to seeing her with René; a normal husband would not do such things. A normal husband would have taken her on their wedding night, would have killed another man for talking to her. Pierre was so different, and it frightened her.

"You would?"

He nodded.

"Why?"

Pierre shrugged. "I know that you don't love me," he said finally. "And I don't want you to be unhappy – "

"I…well…" it was true, but the truth was somehow more painful than their farce of a marriage. "I could learn, in time – "

"Theresa, I don't love you either," said Pierre, "at least, not in that way. Making love to you would be like making love to my sister."

His honesty stung her, and she had to struggle to conceal her anger. "Why did you marry me if you don't love me?"

"Your father asked me to."

"My father also asks you to stop picking pockets!" she snapped, "and you continue to do that!"

"I love someone else," said Pierre. "Someone I can't be with."

"Who?"

Pierre shook his head. "It doesn't matter."

"Is she married? Is it one of the girls from the village? Do her parents hate you?"

"It doesn't matter. I couldn't be with her, so when your father asked if I'd marry you, I accepted."

"So I'm your second choice?"

Pierre groaned and rubbed his forehead. "You're like a little sister to me, Theresa," he said, "and I thought that René was only going to hurt you. I married you to protect you from him." He laughed now. "But it looks like we were wrong about him; he does love you."

Theresa stood up and made her way around the table towards him. He stared at her, then stood up. She hugged him, feeling herself smile as he hugged her back. "If my father doesn't give his consent, René and I will run away," she whispered.

"And I will help in any way I can."

~xXx~

"I don't like him," said Cassandra. "I don't want him near her."

"I know that," said Clopin. "But she loves him, and she wants to be with him."

Cassandra shook her head. "She's a child – "

"She's seventeen. She's a woman now." He reached out and took hold of Cassandra's hands. "You married me when you were seventeen."

"That was different," said Cassandra. "I loved you, and I knew that you loved me back. I knew you'd never hurt me. This boy is a soldier! You know what they're like."

"Phoebus was also a soldier, remember?"

"Don't change the subject – "

"He was a soldier, and he still loves Esmerelda."

Cassandra sighed, rubbing her forehead. "What about Pierre?"

"They're not really married." Cassandra looked at him, puzzled. "Last night, they didn't – "

"No, I saw her outside cleaning the sheets."

"It's Pierre's blood, not hers. He said she didn't want him and that he wouldn't force her, so he cut his hand to fool the rest of us."

Cassandra only stared at him, her eyes wide and disbelieving. "Why would he do that?"

Clopin shrugged. "He's always been strange. Perhaps he just cares for her in a different way."

"What if René doesn't love her? What if he only hurts her?"

"That's a risk," said Clopin, "but it's Theresa's risk, and she's willing to take it." Cassandra bit her lower lip, and Clopin squeezed her hands. "She isn't happy with Pierre. She doesn't love him. She loves René."

~xXx~

He was thoroughly surprised to find Pierre on the other side of the door, and he was tempted to slam it in his face. Pierre seemed to sense this, and he put his hand on the doorframe. "What do you want?" demanded René. He suddenly found himself wanting a drink, and he had to push the thought from his mind. He'd spent most of the day staring at a bottle of wine, trying to tell himself that it would not make him feel any better. He'd managed to stave off temptation long enough by convincing himself that Theresa's father could come and fetch him at any given moment, and it wouldn't do if he saw him drunk.

"Theresa wants to see you," said Pierre. "Come on."

"Did Clopin send you?"

"He doesn't know I'm here. Do you want to see Theresa or not?"

As much as René found himself hating Pierre, he followed him. They walked to the Gypsy camp in silence, passing by Clopin's caravan as though it didn't exist. They were headed towards the little house where Theresa now lived with Pierre. René stared at it. He'd expected to see Theresa waiting outside for him, and was startled when he didn't see her. He suddenly wondered if this was a trick. What if Theresa wasn't waiting for him? What if a band of Gypsies, all armed with knives, was waiting instead? What if Pierre had simply lured him out here to kill him? René glanced over at Pierre, but his face was unreadable.

They went to the house but did not go inside. Instead, Pierre led René around to the side. Theresa was standing there, leaning against the side of the house. She reached for him, and he went to her, wrapping his arms around her. René closed his eyes. Theresa felt soft and warm, and he could feel the curves of her body even though she was pressed against him. He inhaled, taking in her scent. Seeing her, holding her, smelling her – he felt whole. He felt complete.

"We don't have much time," said Pierre, and this jolted René from his reverie. He opened his eyes. Theresa slid out of his arms, and he was momentarily disappointed. Pierre approached them, carrying a small, mostly-empty jug of wine in his hands. "Take her hands."

René stared at Pierre. Theresa reached out and took hold of his hands. "What's going on?"

"You're getting married," said Pierre. He set the wine jug down and folded his hands around René's and Theresa's, pressing their hands together. "All right – "

"Wait," said René. It was happening much too fast. Theresa was still married to Pierre. Why on earth was he doing this? Why was he just giving her up? Was it even legal or moral for him to do this? Theresa couldn't have two husbands; wasn't there some sort of procedure that would nullify her marriage to Pierre? "Hold on, why are you doing this?"

Pierre rolled his eyes. "I don't love Theresa the way you do," he said, "we aren't even really married."

Theresa was looking at him, her eyes wide with desperation. "I had to lie to you earlier," she said. "I'm sorry, I truly am – "

"Lie about what?"

"She's still a virgin," said Pierre. René stared, unable to think properly let alone speak. He remembered Theresa scrubbing at the sheet, remembered her holding it up. He remembered the slowly-fading bloodstain. He glanced down at Pierre's hands, suddenly noticing the bandage. "So we aren't really married."

"I'm so sorry, René, I shouldn't have lied – "

"I – it's fine," he said, "I don't care."

"We really don't have much time," said Pierre. "Now if you want to run away together before Clopin comes back, we have to hurry."

The idea of running away, of fleeing, was one that disgusted René. It implied cowardice, and would cause disgrace and a scandal. He, for one, would not flee. He would marry Theresa with her father's blessing, no matter what it took. He and Theresa would build a life together, and it would be a proper one. They would settle down, they would not spend a lifetime together fleeing and hiding. "Pierre, I'm not running away from anyone," said René.

Pierre rolled his eyes. "Listen, if Clopin doesn't give his consent – "

"What's going on back here?"

René felt Theresa tighten her grip on his hands, and he turned to the sound of the familiar voice. Clopin was staring at them, his arms folded across his chest. His wife and children were beside him, as was Phoebus. For a moment, if felt as though time had froze. René stared at Clopin, trying to look respectful, trying to remain brave. He squeezed Theresa's hands, trying to be reassuring.

Clopin broke the stillness, moving forward. He motioned for Pierre to step back, and Pierre did so, releasing René's and Theresa's clasped hands. René wondered if he should let go of Theresa's hands, if holding her hands like this was improper, but he feared losing her. What if this was the last time he saw her? What if this was the last time he ever touched her? He could feel her hands, could feel every line in her palms. Theresa, likewise, refused to let go of him. He felt her hands tremble, and knew that she was frightened, and he wished that there was some way he could comfort her.

Clopin stared down at their hands. "I've given it a great deal of thought," he said. He glanced over at Pierre. "And I assume that Pierre has decided to end this marriage?"

Pierre nodded. "Yes."

Clopin reached out, placing his hands where Pierre's had once been. René heard Theresa gasp, heard the pleasure and surprise in her voice. "René, do you swear to honor and love my daughter, Theresa?"

"Yes. Yes, I do."

"Theresa, do you swear to love and honor your husband, René?"

Theresa nodded. "I do."

Clopin turned to Pierre, extending one hand. "Let's have that wine bottle." Pierre handed it to him wordlessly, and Clopin uncorked it. He handed it to Theresa, and she drank. She gave it to René, and he found himself staring at it. "Drink it," said Clopin. René nodded, swallowing the remaining wine. Clopin stepped back. "Now you smash it."

Theresa reached out, gripping the neck of the bottle. They both raised it. It was a dull, greenish color, and it caught the sunlight. For a moment, it looked as though the empty bottle was filled with light. René let it fall from his hands, and it landed on the ground. It broke, sending shards of green glass spiraling out across the ground.


	33. Still 1505, Part XXVIII

STILL 1505…

"Look, I don't want to talk about it anymore," said Pierre. "Go ask someone else."

Giovanni sighed and rolled his eyes. He had been more than surprised when he'd found out that Pierre was marrying Theresa, but now finding out that she was with René, that she'd never, in fact, been married to Pierre…it seemed as though no one could provide him with the answers he wanted. The whole thing was tangled and confusing, and it had all happened so fast. Theresa was with René now, at this moment, becoming his wife in every sense of the word, and Pierre didn't seem to give a damn. He was staring up at the night sky with a half-empty wine bottle beside him. It was almost like any other normal night. "Pierre, please."

Giovanni sat down beside him, taking the bottle and drinking. The wine was unnaturally sweet, but it slid down his throat easily. Pierre would not look directly at him; he continued to stare up at the sky as though it was far more interesting than anything else. He did, however, acknowledge Giovanni's presence by reaching for the bottle. Giovanni handed it to him wordlessly and watched him drink.

"We all thought René would only hurt her," said Pierre finally. He turned, looking at him. "You asked me to keep an eye on her, to make sure he didn't do anything improper. And when René kept coming around, your uncle asked me if I'd marry Theresa. He thought that if Theresa got married, René would lose interest in her. I thought I was protecting her."

"But…she says you don't even love her – "

"I don't, at least, not in that way." Pierre was staring at him, his dark eyes clouded with some emotion that Giovanni couldn't quite identify. He was tempted to label it as sorrow, but it seemed to run deeper than that. "I thought I was protecting her." He took another drink. "I mean…you'd do the same for Marie, wouldn't you? If you and Katarina weren't married."

Giovanni shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe." Pierre handed him the bottle. "But I don't love Marie like that. I don't think I could marry her if I didn't love her."

"Not even to protect her?"

He took a drink. "That's not why you marry someone," he said. "You marry a girl because you love her, not because someone's asking you to protect her." He realized how bitter he sounded, and he looked over at Pierre. Pierre was nodding in agreement, and this surprised Giovanni. "I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't mean it like that – "

"No, you're right."

"Besides, Marie seems happy."

Pierre rolled his eyes. "That stupid bastard only married her because he got her pregnant."

"Well, what would you have done in his place?"

"I would've kept it in my pants."

"Come on, you're acting like he molested her."

"He practically did," said Pierre, bitterly. "He took advantage of her."

Experience had taught him that arguing with Pierre was an exercise in futility, but Giovanni did not feel like giving up. Pierre had always treated Marie as though she was helpless. Her deafness may have been a hindrance, but it didn't render her an idiot. She could take care of herself. She could make her own choices. "He loves her. If he didn't, he would've just left with the rest of his family."

Pierre sighed, and Giovanni handed him the wine bottle. "You're right," he said, taking a long swig. "I just…she's my little sister."

"I know. I feel that way about Theresa."

"You didn't seem so upset when I married her."

Giovanni shook his head. "You're my best friend," he said, "we're practically brothers. I did think it was a little strange that you wanted to marry her, but I know you, and I trust you. I certainly trusted you a lot more than René." Pierre nodded. "It's very strange that you didn't…you know…"

Pierre groaned and took another swig from the wine bottle. "God, does everyone know?"

"Yes."

"Damn it."

"Why did you lie about it?"

Pierre shrugged. "Theresa was crying. She kept saying that she had to, even though she didn't want me. I couldn't force her." He stared down at the wine bottle before finishing it. "I also didn't want everyone to think I'm impotent."

"Well, I already think that."

Pierre laughed. "There are several prostitutes who can tell you otherwise," he said. He stood up. "I think I'll go pay one a visit."

"What would your mother say about that?"

"Oh, she'd just tell me to get married," said Pierre, still laughing, " 'I'm not getting any younger, Pierre, and you know I want to see you happily married before I die.' "

~xXx~

"I know it isn't much," said René, "but once I've been saving my money so we can get a house."

Theresa smiled at him. "It's fine," she said. The room was dim and located above a noisy tavern, but she didn't care. The rickety table and chairs, the crooked shelves, the chipped basin full of water, the bed by the window – she seemed to take it all in, and she clearly didn't care about its shabbiness. It was a room for her and René, a place of their very own. They would begin to build their new life here. "It's perfect."

René embraced her, pulling her close, and she rested her head against his chest. He closed his eyes, stroking her hair. The cheapness of the room, the noise that drifted up from the tavern below – none of it mattered. It was as though none of it even existed. It felt as though the entire world had vanished, leaving only him and Theresa and their love.

René opened his eyes and lifted her into his arms. Theresa gasped, startled, and gripped his shoulders. "I love you," he said, bringing her over to the bed – their bed, now – and laying her down on it. "I love you so much."

"I love you too," she said, stroking his cheek, running her fingertips over his face. She pulled away from him, and he was startled for a moment. She began undoing the buttons on her blouse, her fingers moving slowly and carefully. He watched as she let it slide off of her shoulders. He pulled his own shirt off now, climbing onto the bed beside her. Her skin felt soft and smooth and warm, and he wanted to kiss her. He did, brushing his lips against her neck and shoulders, inhaling, taking in her scent. She let him touch her breasts, let him kiss them.

They knelt before one another, almost as if in prayer, holding each other. Theresa kissed him, her lips hungry. She pulled away from him again, this time undoing the buttons on the side of her skirt. René watched, fascinated, as she removed the garment. He tugged his trousers off now, eagerly, clumsily, nearly falling off the bed. It made Theresa giggle, and he felt himself blushing as he took her in his arms again. He lay down, pulling her on top of him.

He had never been with a virgin before, but he'd heard that it was easier for one if she was on top. Besides, he did not want to do anything to irritate the wound in the back of Theresa's shoulder. She straddled him, let him enter her, and he did so as slowly and gently as he could. She was warm and soft, and she moaned his name as she moved. He moved with her, creating a steady rhythm. "I love you," he said, "oh God, Theresa, I love you." The whole thing was ecstasy. Touching her, holding her, seeing the love she felt for him, feeling her pleasure, it was amazing. He had been with women before, but he had never truly made love until now.

It ended as quickly and passionately as it had begun, and he watched as Theresa stood by the basin, wiping the blood off of her thighs. He rose, pulling the bloodstained sheet off of the bed, and joined her. He was surprised at the amount of blood; he hadn't expected there to be so much. He hoped he hadn't hurt her. He put his hand on her shoulder, and she looked at him, smiling. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

She shook her head. "No."

Her blood had, naturally, gotten onto him, and he wiped it off before following her back to the bed. He slid beneath the remaining blankets, relishing the way she snuggled against him. Her body was soft and warm, and she rested her head against his chest. He stroked her hair. "I can hear your heart," she said.

"What does it say?"

She giggled, lifting her head to look at him. "It says 'I love you.' "

~xXx~

He groaned, winding his fingers through the prostitute's soft blonde hair. He let his mind wander, let it drift, knowing that even if she could read his mind, she was in no position to judge him. She sold herself, she let men touch and defile her in exchange for money; what would she care if he thought about another man while she pleasured him?

Despite this, Pierre still bit his lip, stopped himself from calling out Giovanni's name as he climaxed. He opened his eyes, letting the room come back into focus. He pulled his hand out of the prostitute's hair, doing so slowly and gently. She was wiping her mouth, getting to her feet. He'd already paid her, but she was holding her hand out for more as he rose. He tugged his trousers back up and reached into his pocket. He handed her another coin, and she took it silently.

He left her, his hands jammed into his pockets, his head lowered against the crisp night air. He supposed that he should go home even though he didn't really want to. He had no real desire to return to the bed he'd once shared chastely with Theresa. It would still smell like her, like her sorrow, like her tears. She was happy now, at least, in the arms of the man she loved. If only I could be so lucky, thought Pierre.

He waved the thought away, reminding himself that what he felt for Giovanni was not normal. It was wrong. It was unnatural. His mother would disown him if she knew; she'd probably die from the shock of it. He himself would be executed for it, burned at the stake, though not before being brutally tortured. He passed the house that Giovanni and Katarina shared, forcing himself not to look at it. Giovanni would be asleep, Katarina nestled in his arms.

Pierre knew that sleep would not come to him tonight. He knew before climbing into bed – the bed that still smelled of his blood and Theresa's tears – that he would spend yet another night lying awake, wishing he could trade places with Katarina.

~xXx~

The world could be a harsh and cruel place, but it could also be a beautiful one. Though the room was small and sparsely furnished, though the sounds of the tavern beneath it drifted up through the floorboards, Theresa felt happier than she'd ever been before. She was fairly certain that René was asleep; she could feel his chest rise and fall with rhythmic slowness. She closed her eyes, listening to his heartbeat. It was strong and steady, and it told her that he loved her.

She opened her eyes, glancing briefly at the crumpled bed sheet that lay on the floor. The blood looked blackish in the moonlight, like tar, and she found herself thinking of Pierre, of his infinite kindness. He was such a good friend. She told herself that she'd find a way to repay his kindness some day.

Theresa let her eyes drift closed. It was another thought for another day. For now, she and René belonged to each other. They would save their money and eventually move out of the cheap room above the tavern. They would have a proper home. The wound in her leg was healing, and it would only continue to do so. Eventually, she'd be able to walk without the crutches and without a limp. She would dance again, and René would watch her, smiling at her as she twirled.


	34. Epilogue, 1506

**EPILOGUE, 1506…**

He wanted to believe that the Gypsy witch's death had undone her curse. Cosette believed it; he had to believe it too, if only for his own sanity. Jean-Claude climbed up into the carriage beside her. He put his arm around her, placing his free hand protectively over her stomach. She was only two months along; her stomach was flat. It certainly did not look like she was pregnant, and the doctor had assured him that it would be safe for her to travel.

Despite its majestic beauty, Paris was crawling with Gypsies. Even if the witch – that filthy harlot who'd enchanted René – was dead, there were others, hundreds upon hundreds of others, lurking in Paris. Jean-Claude told himself that he was sending Cosette away for her own good, for the good of their baby. He did not want to send her to Lyon; his mother and sister probably still lived there, and he did not want them anywhere near Cosette or the baby. He secretly feared that his mother and sister would come forth, that they would reveal themselves and disgrace him. Cosette could never know the truth about his parentage. She could never know that his mother had been nothing but a common whore.

Still, Cosette's father and grandparents lived in Lyon, and she wanted to stay with them. Jean-Claude could not come up with a good enough excuse to change her mind, and he could only pray that his mother and sister still wanted nothing to do with him. He wondered briefly if René lived in Lyon. Did he mourn the dead Gypsy witch? Was he now living among her family and friends in filth and sin and poverty? Or had he moved on? Had he delivered her corpse to her family and left immediately? Though Jean-Claude tried to tell himself that it did not matter what had become of René, he still found himself remembering him and wondering what had become of him. René had, after all, been the closest thing he'd ever had to a friend. Occasionally, Jean-Claude found himself missing René.

He sat beside Cosette, his arm around her, listening to her as she talked. She wanted to discuss names for the baby, and he listened politely. If the child was a boy, she wanted to name it after him, and he was flattered by this. He had been named after his father, and he liked the idea of keeping the name "Claude" within the family bloodline. If the child was a girl, Cosette wanted to name it after her mother. Though Jean-Claude did not like the way "Fantine Frollo" sounded, he nodded and gave his consent. At this point, naming the unborn baby didn't matter. All that mattered was bringing Cosette to a safe place, so that she could deliver the baby without witchcraft or other complications.

~xXx~

She stared down at the screaming infant she held in her hands, almost unable to believe that he had indeed come out of Marie. Her grandson seemed so tiny, so small and fragile. All Rosalie could do was stare down at him. His cries were loud and high in pitch, and they jolted her back into reality. She moved towards the basin of warm water; her legs felt stiff and sluggish, it was as though she couldn't move fast enough.

"Rosalie." She felt Esmerelda's hands on her own, felt Esmerelda take the baby from her. Esmerelda was pointing back over her shoulder at Marie. "Rosalie, she's bleeding."

Rosalie turned back to Marie, rushing to her. Cassandra was still kneeling by her side, holding her hand and stroking her hair. Rosalie bent, examining Marie. The tearing had been minimal, and she sewed the small wounds shut quickly. Marie groaned in pain and twitched. Rosalie cleaned up the afterbirth, moving quickly and numbly. She could still see her grandson's face in her mind's eye. It seemed strange and surreal. She'd been preparing for this moment ever since Marie's wedding night; she'd been telling herself that she would be the one to deliver the baby, her grandchild. It still felt strange to hold the squirming, squalling newborn in her hands and know that he was a part of her.

Marie was sitting up now, and Rosalie draped clean blankets over her shivering legs. "It's a boy," she said. Marie smiled, looking around, searching for her baby. Esmerelda was still holding him, smiling and cooing at him as she wrapped him in the soft green and yellow blanket that Marie had spent the last nine months knitting.

The door swung open behind her, and Rosalie saw Dmitri enter. Pierre was at his side, reaching for him, trying to pull him back. "I heard the baby," said Dmitri, brushing Pierre away. "Is…is it all right?"

Esmerelda turned to him, smiling as she approached him. "You have a son," she said. Dmitri's French had improved vastly, but she still spoke slowly, as though she wasn't sure he understood her; he stared down at the bundle in her arms, his eyes wide. He took the baby from her gently, cradling the baby's head and neck carefully.

"He's beautiful," said Pierre. He stepped closer to Dmitri, leaning down to look at the baby. "He's so small."

Dmitri smiled now, and Rosalie could see tears of joy forming in his eyes. "Hello Mikhail," he said, kissing the baby's forehead, "I'm your father…" he shifted, moving across the room, bringing the baby over to Marie. "I loved you before I even met you, Mikhail, and now that I know you, I love you more." He sat down on the bed beside Marie, looking at her. He kissed her cheek. "I love you."

Rosalie watched as Marie made the motions that meant 'I love you' with her hands. Dmitri eased the baby into her arms, and she smiled down at him. Rosalie felt a familiar hand on her shoulder, and she turned. "Come on," said Pierre. "They need some time alone with the baby. We can come back later."

She washed her hands, dried them on her apron, then left. Esmerelda and Cassandra had gone out ahead of her, and they were waiting for her. Rosalie found herself glancing back over her shoulder at the house, wishing she could see through its walls. In her mind's eye, she still saw Dmitri holding the baby, kissing his forehead and talking to him. She felt Heracles's hand on her waist, and she turned to him. "I have a grandson," she said.

"That's wonderful." Heracles hugged her. She found herself standing up on her tiptoes, looking over his shoulder, watching as Giovanni clapped Pierre on the back.

"Well come on, don't keep the rest of us waiting," said Giovanni, "have you got a niece or a nephew?"

"A nephew," said Pierre. "Marie had a boy!"

"Congratulations!" Much to her surprise, Giovanni hugged Pierre. In her own joy, she did not notice the look of delight that flashed in her son's eyes as he returned the hug, and even if she had seen it, she would not have given it much thought. Rosalie closed her eyes; she could feel tears of joy stinging at her eyelids, and as much as she did not want to cry, she let them trickle down her cheeks.

~xXx~

Jean-Claude and Cosette were in Lyon. René's first thought was that Jean-Claude had somehow found out about Theresa, that he'd returned to execute her. The thought, René soon realized, was stupid and irrational. If Jean-Claude had returned to kill Theresa, why would he have brought Cosette with him? Why would he arrive without a group of soldiers to aid him? Cosette had family in Lyon; they were clearly only here for a visit.

Still, he raced to find Theresa. She was in her usual place, dancing for coins. Though he loved to watch her dance, and though he appreciated the extra money her dancing brought, René was always slightly irritated when he saw other men staring at her. Theresa had explained to him that she didn't notice the stares, that dancing always put her into a sort of a trance. Still, she was his wife. Other men had no right to ogle her like that, to undress her with their eyes. Occasionally he found himself wishing that the wound in her leg hadn't healed properly, that she had a limp that prevented her from dancing, and these thoughts made him hate himself.

"Theresa!" he grabbed her arm, startling her. She stared at him, stunned. "Come on," he said, stooping and helping her pick up her coins. "You need to hide."

"Hide? From what?"

René glanced over his shoulder. The street was crowded. He couldn't see Jean-Claude or Cosette in the crowd. Still, he had to get Theresa home, had to keep her inside until he was certain that Jean-Claude was gone. "Jean-Claude is here," he said, tugging on her wrist, leading her. "I saw him on the road earlier. He's here."

Theresa's eyes went wide, and she gripped his hand. "Oh God! Does he know? Is he here to kill me?"

Her terror was stark, unhidden, and it made him angry. Jean-Claude's mere presence frightened Theresa, and there was nothing René could do about it. Nothing short of killing Jean-Claude, that is; he'd never get away with it. He'd be executed, and Theresa would be a widow, and then what would happen to her? Would Cosette recognize her? Would Cosette cry witchcraft and have her burned at the stake? Though it would be thoroughly satisfying to end Jean-Claude's life, it came at much too high a price.

"No," said René. He pulled her into their house. It was small, but much nicer than the room they'd been renting when they'd first married. Theresa was pulling the curtains closed, blocking out the sunshine of the day. "I think he's only here because his wife has family here." He went to her, putting his arms around her and holding her close. "He doesn't know about you," he said, stroking her hair, "I just want you to stay inside and out of sight until he leaves."

She nodded. "Of course."

"He doesn't know you're still alive," said René, "just stay in here, out of sight. He'll probably leave in a few days. He'll never know." Despite his best efforts to comfort her, he could feel her shudder. It was stupid of him to think that Jean-Claude would never leave Paris, especially not when his wife had family in Lyon. Perhaps he and Theresa should move. He hated the idea of pulling her away from her family. He hated the idea of fleeing. Perhaps they could go somewhere that wasn't too far away. There were small farm towns that dotted the road that led from Paris to Lyon; surely they could live in one of those. They wouldn't be too far from all that Theresa held dear, and they wouldn't be in danger of being discovered by Jean-Claude.

~xXx~

"I'd like to stay for a few more months," said Rosalie, "just to make sure the baby's all right."

"Well, according to Frieda's letter, the circus won't be back until summer," said Heracles. He leaned against her. She had scrubbed her hands and arms thoroughly, but she still smelled like blood and sweat. In a few hours, they would go to see Marie, Dmitri, and the new baby. Rosalie shifted impatiently; she wanted to hold her grandson again. "And we don't have to leave if you don't want to."

"I know how much you love to travel."

"Oh, I've already seen the world," he said, shrugging, "it's nothing special."

She smiled at him. "Well, I haven't."

"Fair enough. But we can always decide later." He wasn't sure if he wanted to rejoin the circus. He'd grown accustomed to staying in one place, to living with Rosalie. He liked it. He liked waking up beside her and knowing that he'd never have to leave her again. He found it strange that she wanted to go with him. All Gypsies traveled, it was n their blood; still, this was Rosalie's home. This was where she'd brought her children and raised them. Now she had a new grandson. Did she really want to leave it all behind?

"Did they name the baby?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yes. His name is Mikhail." She smiled. "You should've seen the way Dmitri held him…"

"He'll make a good father." Heracles was tempted to ask about Pierre, but he knew better. Rosalie never spoke of her son's brief marriage to Theresa; everyone acted as though it had never happened. Theresa lived in town with René. She came by to visit every Sunday, and it was nice to see her. Her leg had healed, and she had begun dancing again, still graceful as ever. Heracles had seen her in town, twirling in the street for coins.

"He will," said Rosalie. She stood up now, moving towards the caravan's window and opening the curtains. She gazed out at the little house where Marie, Dmitri, and their new baby lived. Heracles could practically see the impatience emanating from Rosalie, and he went to her. He put his arms around her, kissing her cheek.

"Come on," he said, "let's go see them."

~xXx~

He told himself that he should not have been surprised to see René digging graves in the churchyard. René had probably been the one to bury the Gypsy witch; naturally he would fall into this line of work. Still, seeing him swing the shovel, stabbing the ground angrily with it, made Jean-Claude shudder.

"René?" Something inside of him was telling him to ignore René, to turn and leave, but he ignored it. Against his better judgment, Jean-Claude opened the little gate and entered the graveyard.

René turned to him, setting the shovel down. He stared, his blue eyes blank and hollow-looking. It was strange to see René without his uniform. It was strange to see him slouching beside a pile of dirt. "Can I help you?"

"René, it's Jean-Claude." He knew that René had recognized him. Eight months had not changed either of them.

"I know." René wiped his dirty hands on his trousers. "What do you want?"

Whatever spell the Gypsy witch had cast on René, it clearly hadn't lifted. His voice was angry and bitter, and he glared at Jean-Claude. Jean-Claude began to wonder about Cosette. What if the curse hadn't been lifted from her? What if this baby died too? There was nothing more he could do; the witch was dead. "I'm surprised you stayed in Lyon," said Jean-Claude.

René shrugged. "I don't have anywhere else to go," he said.

"You have the world."

"Why are you here, Jean-Claude? What do you want?" René sounded irritated. He picked up the shovel and began to dig again. "Are you here to execute me? Did you change your mind about letting me live?"

"No," snapped Jean-Claude. René's sudden rudeness was infuriating, and he wished that he could do something about it. It was not René's fault, he reminded himself; it was the witch and her spell. "Cosette is pregnant again," he said, "I'm bringing her to stay with her father."

"Congratulations." René's voice was flat and emotionless, and he refused to look at Jean-Claude.

Jean-Claude glanced around the graveyard, his eyes wandering over the crooked tombstones. The graveyard was well cared for, the grass neat and trim. Fresh flowers had been laid on several of the graves; they would undoubtedly be thrown away once they began to wither. "Where is she buried?"

He noticed René's muscles tighten. "Who?"

"The witch."

René turned to him. He was holding the shovel, gripping it with both hands, and for a brief instant, Jean-Claude wondered if he meant to strike him. Eight months of harsh, outdoor work had probably built up René's muscles, but Jean-Claude had his sword and his own military training. He gripped it, drumming his fingers along the handle. He would not draw it unless René advanced. "You know she isn't buried here," said René. "You know Gypsies don't get a proper Christian burial."

"Especially not witches," said Jean-Claude. There was something strange and oddly satisfying about the way René was glaring at him. "Where is she buried?"

"The Gypsies have their own plot near their camp," said René.

"Were you the one to bury her?"

René shook his head. "Her father did it," he said. He turned back to the grave he'd been digging. "I offered to help him, but…" René's voice trailed off and he sighed, "Go away, Jean-Claude. Just go away."

"I'm leaving Lyon tomorrow," said Jean-Claude.

"But Cosette will remain?"

"For her own safety, and that of the baby, of course."

René only nodded. "Of course."

Jean-Claude watched him. He found himself pitying René; perhaps that was why he had spared him, even though he'd committed treason. René, poor stupid René, had let himself fall into the Gypsy witch's spell, and she had taken everything from him. His own mother had come to Jean-Claude, brandishing a letter René had written, begging him to tell her that it wasn't true, that René hadn't sacrificed and lost everything for a Gypsy girl. She'd broken down, sobbing into her hands, her tears soaking the letter. She had treated René as though he'd died; she'd even held a funeral for him. It was all the Gypsy witch's doing, but René was too stupid to realize it. He would probably hate Jean-Claude for the rest of his life, and when he died and went straight to Hell, only then would he realize his folly.

Still, Jean-Claude could not change his mind, and he didn't particularly care. René could go on digging graves and pining over a dead witch. It didn't matter to Jean-Claude. He had his own life to lead. He left René without saying goodbye, and René did not seem to acknowledge him. He returned to Cosette and held her. Her father would send a messenger to him once the baby was born, and he would return to Lyon to collect the two of them. Jean-Claude closed his eyes, inhaling and taking in Cosette's sweet, clean scent.

"Stay with me," she whispered.

"You know I can't," he said, stroking her hair. "But I'll return, you'll see. I'll come back for you."

"I'll miss you."

"And I'll miss you. Moments without you are agony, Cosette." He kissed her. "But I'll return. I swear to you, I'll return."

She nodded. "I know. I love you, Jean-Claude."

"And I you."

**END**

* * *

_Author's Notes:_

Props, thanks, and recognition go first and foremost to Victor Hugo and his masterpiece, "The Hunchback of Notre Dame." Same for the Disney version (although the book is better).

Props, thanks, and recognition also go out to Tod Browning's film "Freaks," which serves as my inspiration for Hans and Frieda's circus. It's a good movie. I know that there is a circus in "The Hunchback of Notre Dame II," but I've actually never seen it. Hans, Frieda, Heracles, and everyone else in the circus is a nod to "Freaks."

I really didn't do any actual research for this story, aside from watching "The Hunchback of Notre Dame" and looking at a map of medieval France. And I found that map on wikipedia, so it's probably a map of a shopping mall in downtown Detroit.

When I started this story, I realized early on that I had way too many romantic subplots (Quasimodo and Frieda, Heracles and Rosalie, Dmitri and Marie, just for starters). One plot that I cut was about Pierre struggling to deal with the fact that he's gay (congrats to Sunrise19 for picking up on that). Not to worry, though; Pierre's getting his very own story at some point in the future.

I kind of went nuts with all the "Les Miserables" references in this story; can anyone catch them all?

Mad crazy thanks and props to the people who reviewed, especially Tonyboy and Sunrise19.


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